Frail, Gaunt, and Small

This one isn’t singing,
So let’s not assign hope,
Known or unknown to it.

It’s still a winter bird,
However, a wonder
As they all are, whether

Winter’s truly bitter,
Built from blizzards, or just
This snapping desert cold.

You read explanations,
But you still can’t see how
A fistful of feathers

Around a palm’s span
Of thin bones and acorn-
Sized heart can manage warmth

Enough to keep flying
And foraging these months.
It wings into the dark.