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Winterbirds queue at the Pike bus stop
in their quilted coats and knitted caps,
and though it's very nearly spring,
they dare not molt and hop and sing;
they do not dress in courtship hues,
nor jay about in shorts and tees.
Instead, they hunker in a bunch,
too chillboned still to flap a wing.
Fret not, poor pets; soon you'll unhunch,
For summer's swelter is on its way.