They sift through seed
together and feast
on plant or feeder.
I watch them from
this window in
the land of dawn.
And this orchestra
of two will bring
a song of morn,
with a strike, a bar
that breaks the heart,
sweet music where
the eye will rest.
Then comes escape –
the driving of wings
upon the air,
releasing the mind
from war, all despair
takes flight into
serenity and calm.
Mourning is but a sigh
that drifts upon the
winds of time
as we seek immunity
from the vagaries
of sun and moon.
7/2018
Anne's mediocre poetry 