Sunday, September 29, 2013

It Is a Time

I swear they are playing
A small flock of small brown birds
Flits from bending stem to bending stem
Grasses bowing slightly
Springing down when they land
And then up as they soon depart.
And if beaks could break a smile
The true story might be told.
It is a time of richness
A time of many seeds and
In this moment of joy
They eat fully
And fly freely.


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