The garden and the meadow were full of birds. They chattered and sang, swooped through the air, sat on tree branches, and dug for worms and grubs and seeds.
And all the while, fat snowflakes swirled through the air, landing with wet plops on the ground, on the wall, on the still-dormant plants, and on the birds.
In amongst the raucous jostling for lunch, one small pair of house finches flitted here and there, gathering twigs and leaves and dropped stems and even bits of string and hair. They had recently arrived in the neighborhood and were diligently putting the finishing touches on their brand-new nest in the old oak tree.
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