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…
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?