Winged Messengers

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.

Winged Messengers

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

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