Winter  begins with  cricket sound in the loft
From the outer darkness of an empty shell.
It is in body hair perking under sheep's wool,
The body paint of a sheep dead to the hills.

Winter is annual  bird nesting in old bodies.
It steadily pecks at old  face's lonely warmth 
Behind woolen mufflers shutting out sounds.
The old eyes eagerly look forward to its return
To the white wild wastes of its Siberian home.
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