The early bird gets the worm;
though have you ever stopped to wonder
that our time might have been better spent
in choosing; that wade across the pecking order?
For as they say, we’re like a feather
but to look upon us now,
no one told us we’re the molted ones;
left us to suffer in figuring it out.
The sky calls out my song;
I’m sure you hear it too.
Speaking words known to the soul
the instinct, rise above.
That is the base of life, I know;
yet for simpler causes we fight the call
of nature.
Grounded on opposites of the bank;
we sit, we share
this everlasting moment;
a savage beauty.
To a higher view this may seem so insignificant,
yet when I take wing, breaking this sacred moment
in the caress of the mind’s eye
I shall remember
that grace, love, hate, and anger
experienced in another lifetime
as two doves across the river.

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