On a sunny day like this in February
when pigeons walk arboreal galleries,
much as they did in Shakespeare's time,
and pause, then dive down to the ground,
something in nature is reprised,
defying centuries of change,
and talk today of a future away,
that leaves forever this February day.
And the greater truth of nature's rhythms,
its thousand forms in tight orchestration,
all re-appearing in fashions unchanged
and fervor undiminished, makes us seem,
for all our advances, something less:
or why sit back, this February day confess?
