The dappled splay of the elms' limbs shadowed,
upon ground where millions of creatures live,
God's hand everywhere, despite you and me,
in the trees by my windows small wrens rest,
family members beyond the glass panes,
at dawn we sing together, sometimes laugh,
sympathetic trills, new melodies lilt,
their's seem to float upward, while mine fall down,
I have never heard dissonant birdsong,
the saddest of calls from the mourning dove...
odd, as I write about the mourning doves,
two appear atop my roof, their song loud,
sorrowful wails, perhaps she is pregnant,
beautiful young with potential for flight,
able to fly away, to leave it all,
yesterday leaves us tomorrow's promise,
today is just a figment of the light,
once when I had wings, I knew how to soar,
how to nest, now alone in echelon,
I bank and I yaw in the cold updraft,
in the quiet dawn that proceeds me

something is astir behind all of us

cc: CC '22