Birds

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They people my thoughts

before I am fully awake

their calls and melodies and the harsh

crake, crake of the pheasant

as he strides across

the dew drenched lawn expanse

incessantly calling, in hopes of 

romance, to unseen hens.

They gather themselves

pass news, boast, give warning, greet

and as their offspring learn, mimic, hone,

repeat, my mind slowly

drifts into a day

filled with their company.  These

twittering tribes, nesting, resting in

canopies vibrating life.

Should they disappear

how empty would be such days

no buzzard on his telegraph perch, no

displays of bobbing heads

or crested chests,

swallows would not signal spring

nor the crafty cuckoo warning

sing of thefts to come.

They fill the world with 

their comforting, bountiful sound

hills and valleys, mountains and seascapes

resound to cheering chatter

elemental, free.

If the ground was devoid 

of fragile feet, precise, rummaging beaks,

annoyed wrens bursting with noise

Such pleasures lost

kites skimming clear sky

where, as night fall comes, stealthy owls

fly to feed daylight dreams,

and all that would be left

the empty sound of memory's

regret, old folk telling of used to be

glories we ignored.

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