It is not a relieve to hace the promise, that it will fly away soon.
They still sing highly in your morning, filling your head.
They'll fly around you, they'll mess with your hair and with your time.
They'll still your attention in the moments you need to be alert.
You'll get a piano over your head, and an arrow on your neck.
Their wings will scratch your heart. An I-don't-love-you scratch. One wing. Then another. The first one back, then the last again. Cold, ice-cold feathers. And heavy, as blood.
So, it is no a relieve to know they'll leave. 'Cause they'll come back for spring again.