At midnight, in the sunroom of the ward, when you’re locked in your pajamas, stupid with heartbreak, and your throat a frozen stream, you’ll read how birds in winter lose their minds, or lose that part that urges them to sing— each glad cell dying in the blood, until they know no love but the sparse, sterile seed, the bitter pills that fatten and preserve their hearts against this thoughtless cold, this dark. And yet they seem at peace with this: they love, they turn away from love, they wait for love to come for them again, and trusting, sing the song they knew was gone for good—I knew you’d come back, I knew it, I knew you’d come.