The first day of the year
means nothing
to juncos
foraging among
winter-bleached asters
in the old field
or the white-throats
who rummage through
the garden floor's
dry leaves
for fallen seeds
Grey squirrels
gleaning black walnuts
hidden last autumn
and the red fox
hunting voles
in the east meadow
do not mark
the day
Why should they
when every
new morning
is a gift?
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