The snow swirls in hefty gusts,
a cold bully in the middle of April.
The old house rattles with the force of it.
Sharp, icy flakes tap out a taunting rhythm.
The robin sits huddled in the tree,
wishing - endlessly hoping - for spring.
I watch her tuck her head beneath her wing
and I wrap my arms tighter across my middle.
My wishes - my own hopes - echoing hers.
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