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.…