Oliver

'White-Eyes' by Mary Oliver

In winter
  all the singing is in
    the tops of the trees
      where the wind-bird

with its white eyes
  shoves and pushes
    among the branches.
      Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,
  but he's restless—
    he has an idea,
      and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings
  as long as he stays awake.
    But his big, round music, after all,
      is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.
  In the pine-crown
    he makes his nest,
      he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,
  I only imagine his glittering beak
    tucked in a white wing
      while the clouds—

which he has summoned
  from the north—
    which he has taught
      to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall
  into the world below
    like stars, or the feathers
      of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
  that is asleep now, and silent—
    that has turned itself
      into snow.