SING PRAISES…

The Black Birds [like a gust of wind] flew in-between the branches —
Their chattering chirps, a Hosanna, to the startling mild climate.
I almost, GLEEFULLY, broke my neck looking up at them.

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Cycle Of Burn

Burn is a small stream in Northern England.
On its eroded banks did Warriors once stand?
Can we say a bird’s burning its bridges?
Deserting one’s nest for newer “britches”?
Chasing prey through the woods, around the bends —
This cat’s burning the candle at both ends.
The Great Horned Owl who flies both day and night;
Burns the midnight oil, what great eyesight!
I’d like to sit near that ancient stream, BURN,
To dream of my kinfolk, hoping to learn…

Making the Commitment

Perched on the precipice, telephone pole —
The huge black Crow cawed, to connect his goal.
When a Crow’s calling, he thrusts his head out,
Extends his neck, feathers a visual “shout”.
His whole body’s involved in this cawing,
Beak slightly open — this bird’s vibrating.
I think he’s lonely, looking for kinfolk;
Take a chance, roll that dice, go for broke.
When birds are talking they give it their ALL.
I’m running down the Hall; will I trip and fall?