F/Blown off course...

Whereby in spring and summer did trunks, stems and branches, battle to take their leaves to the light—with birdsong too, around and abound—other agents engaged in territorial trials. Did by autumn see leaves discarded to forest's needle floor and those birds take flight—at the failing of the light.

To near last now, by winter wind's blown branches do those, they, them bows, settle neath a calming chill of freezing, where twig and winter-dead tendrils rest, iced, locked solid, replete with many a dusting of snow.

Nearby last; lost—a lonely bird of paradise—exiled, bewildered...with no f**king idea where to go.