I saw a blackbird on a budding sycamore,

One Easter Day, when sap was stirring twigs to the core, 

I saw his tongue and crocus-colored bill,

Parting a closing as he turned his trill,

Then he flew down, seized on a steam of hay,

And upped to where his building scheme was underway,

As if so a nest were never shaped on a spay.

I watched a raven on a barren field,

One Christmas Day, hopping across the ground to the core,

I saw his beak, and dark colored eyes,

Blinking slowly as he looked around,

Then he flew up, seizing a small branch,

And glided to where his building scheme was underway.