During a lull between typhoon rains
Nine white-breasted birds sat on a wire
Under the canopy of low, gray clouds.
On sodden ground the trees and shrubs
Wore the vestigial gloom of late December.
I thought of Hardy and his frail, gaunt thrush
And wished the birds would repeat to me
The thrush's song of hope, celestial solace
They would design to pour on world-weary souls.
I waited for their song. None of them sang,
Engrossed they were with pimping their feathers.
If nine presaged good luck, thought I,
It would be a prosperous year, or decade.
"Happy New Year!" I hailed them cheerily.
Six scampered away, startled, as I was myself,
By the zing and suddenness of my salutation.
Twithced their tails in unison,
Dropped something white and watery
On my bare head and whisked into the dark.
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