The food now delights, as does the weather,
Yet done is the singing, so I must sigh,
Springing up from my bed in the heather,
I call and I wing my way through sun's sky.
The land is all turning to oranges and red,
My friends are all leaving, I wonder why?
It's getting harder to keep myself fed,
I call and I wing my way through slow sky.
High up above on a cold northern breeze,
Searching and searching for where food might lie,
The plants are all now covered by the freeze,
I call and I wing my way through snow's sky.
But finally, a whole year gone on by,
I call and I sing my way through spring's sky.
YOU ARE READING
The End
PoetryThe mandatory angst poems. ~~~ Whoops. It appears to have accidentally turned into reverent nature poems. Oh, well.
