Winding and weathering shadows in spring.
Feathering through the summer.
Fall and winter are only a blur.
And yet full circle seasons turn.
With clover breaking dust-coloured fields.
The spoils of the victory for birds of the feather.
Pounding with feet and pecking with beak.
Posed for their equidistant dance.
Cool rain sings for the blistering heat.
Who calls to the early dusk?
Fly high; fly high, my shadow fly high.
For the cold wind blows tonight!
No songs will I sing until spring.
No comments:
Post a Comment