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.
YOU ARE READING
Cuttlebone and Cobwebs
PoetryThe beauty of everything from in the land sea and sky from Cuttlebones to Cobwebs
