The smell of golden sunshine
The sound of heavy heat
The taste of owls mourning
The death of day, the birth of night
When the birds sense the ending of the sun
They know to cry, to alert the others
Whose senses are not as strong
They can tell when the stars are ready to give up their vigil
To rest a time, before standing sentinel once again
Then,
As the dawn stretches her auburn fingers, brushing them through the sun
The birds rise as well, to meet the challenge
Of signaling the final pass of night
Of heralding the coming of a ball of flame
CITEȘTI
Songs of the Soul
PoetrySimilar to one of my previous stories because it is about life, but different because this is poetry. Sort of.
