at breaking dawn the birds are perched,
on homes and buildings,- a steeple and church,
before they spread a feathery wing,
their beaks in motion to what they sing,
calling to the sun to rise,
the age of old; the ancient wise,
to fill upon the earthly ground,
the magic of life here so profound,
off they flutter like baloons to the air,
no knowledge of tomorrow; no little care,
in flight they swoop above and beyond,
leaving us in the echo of their haunting song,
to be in effortless flight,
a freedom feeling beautiful sight,
a lonely feather falls to the floor,
picked up by a child next door,
in the keepsake box it goes,
for future reminisce of past, in shows,
a smile and treasure of a freer thing,
stirring the hopes and wonders within.
© Copyright 2016 Kathleen Oakwood. All rights reserved.
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