I am in awe of birds. They seem to have a perspective on life that us mere mortals will never grasp. Often when I’m out walking I imagine them looking down in despair longing to impart their wisdom to us. One morning I was particularly stirred by a flock of birds and wrote this little number.
They whistle through the clotted blue
Their call as clear as glass
Bemused by what we say and do
They cry, please stop the farce!
From heightened glance, life’s circumstance
Is but a tiny fragment
Their calibrated feathered dance
Speaks of a chance less stagnant
They merge into the morning mist
They twist and bob and scatter
From morning messages like this
I know what really matters