“...the winter is kind and leaves red berries on the boughs for hungry sparrows...”
“The sparrow flies south for the winter.”
“The blood of the guitar was Chuck Berry red.”
“...winter crescent resting in the high pine bough - you fly through the woods like a lone snow bird...”
“Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup.”
“She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest innocence in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were given a separate name to warn that they might not come true, and his lithe Parisian daughter of joy, beneath the eternal mirror, forswearing perfumes, capeskin to the armpits, all that is too easy, for his impoverishment and more worthy love”