They sang to me,
a wriggling song about morning and waiting for sunrise
and about going out into the fresh snow.
Is it a good morning for singing? I ask them.
They stop short and stare at me.
Isn’t every morning?
They sang to me,
a wriggling song about morning and waiting for sunrise
and about going out into the fresh snow.
Is it a good morning for singing? I ask them.
They stop short and stare at me.
Isn’t every morning?