In the courtyard where the cooing of pigeons
was all too easily predictable,
I heard a singing, which, freeing itself
from the whining sleet around us,
gave the impression of spring.

We looked up. The bird held its beak.

Like us he, caged and lonely having mixed up
the seasons, did not believe in
the irreversibility of time, though
his singing had delayed our parting for a while.