In February come the waxwings
Like schools of sky fishes
To feed on trees and bushes
With berries red as their tails

Upon icy branch of ash and willow
They descend like hungry locusts
Then alight in a thousand-winged motion
One rolling wave

Fly, little waxwing
Fly, and be free
Rest, little waxwing
In the arms of the cottonwood tree

Among the noisy clan of flyers
One heart beats rebellious
She dreams to be seen alone and glorious
In a still and empty sky

She watches the solitary eagle
She hears the cawing of the crow
But when she lifts her own wings to fly
A host of fluttering shadows follows

Maybe in the madness of the springtime
Or under the summer's softer skies
She will lift her breast to the west wind
And leave them all behind

But on her day of escaping
When she flies off on her own
But will freedom be a bitter berry
If tasted all alone