Frost creeps in: Strength in numbers

As the rose on its ladder of thorns hangs in the gallery of frost
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and the steam’s coming off the boundary
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we muse on the solitude of strength as the starlings command the field
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and then take the only tree that’s left
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as the buzzard is pursued by the armies of a dark regime
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the last starling, like a knight from some old fashioned book
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takes to the Ash to preen and sing.

Meanwhile the nuthatch has a nut
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The tup has a friend
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and the sun will rise tomorrow
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