November winds, November cold.
We see them going, young and old,
We see them bustling away from storms,
We see them flying in V-shaped forms.
We seem to hear them, quiet and low
They say, "Oh, no! We do not want to go.
But oh, alas! Much food we need.
But in the snow, where will we feed?
For warmth and grass and insects yearn...
But wait for us. We will return."

One morning as we wake, we hear
A racket, not far, but very near
And calls: "Hello! We have come back!
To sky of blue, not sky of black.
We have come back to our dear home,
And on the shores of ponds to roam."
We see them fly, not in the shape of "V",
But low and wide, and happy and free!
Such joy and cheer they seem to bring,
And wake us all to the season--Spring.

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