She is learning young
Pure genteel pleasures of a garden
Amid the fragrant roses and towering lupines
That give the winter pardon.
Sweet feminine echo of her beautiful mother
She holds up her watering can
a tiny version of the other.
Now she mimics to perfection
The sprinkling of flowers
as she giggles with delight
At birds in secret bowers.
She can't wait for the 'morrow
Her duties to employ
She is mother's little helper
And Daddy's little joy
For Isaiah Zerbst -Gordon Dunlop Leslie Contest
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney
Turning and dipping in graceful, acrobatic flight,
my spirit soars against a sky brilliantly blue;
from these heights, I view life in its completeness,
its complex boundaries and limitations sharply defined.
I maintain my composure, calm and unruffled by the storms . . .
I sail above the strife where the sun spreads warmth upon my wings.
From this lofty perspective, I watch over my dearest ones.
This clear air provides treasures of wisdom, beauties like the facets of precious jewels,
sparkling with the vibrance that makes joy complete;
I glean and feed them to my little ones, giving them nutrients to enrich their minds.
Home is my central focus.
I learn and implement all that I can to make my nest comfortable and complete,
a rich environment for growth.
Do not intrude; I protect what is mine.
© May 11, 2015, Faye Lanham Gibson
I am a swallow--protection, warmth, home, proper perspective.
Copyright © Faye Gibson
Stork flights in unison To teach unity to every person
Holding the neck extended Aligning the body as if amended
With legs pushed behind To cope with blowing wind
With wide wingspan like the glider In a well-defined order
Hover with one, as leader Of course, watching is a wonder
With the flame of foresight, Stork sets own nest on height
Bears young ones into the wing Benevolently while growing
With wings, provides shade to the young chick So that they could learn to pick
Causes to clatter to communicate About the impending threat, to indicate
Maintains link with the group To get the team spirit, recoup
Revisits the old-aged-mother To attend to issues that may bother
Cares the mother, with fresh feed As the mother may need
Stork is a bird of highest spirituality
In Hebrew, stork means love and loyalty!
Above poem is from “EAGLE EDUCATES ENDURANCE! AND OTHER POEMS ON NATURE ” by Shri.V.Muthumanickam.
Copyright © V.MUTHU MANICKAM
A fledgling crow huddled in
the grass beneath the drooling
gazes of my curious dogs.
Its eyes were blue.
And in the tree, its mother screamed
In my hands it lay, gently confused.
Too young to fear me,
it opened its thirsty beak and greedily
swallowed water from a syringe.
And outside the window, its mother screamed.
I scratched its head,
stroked its breast,
and boxed it for its journey
to a refuge for homeless birds.
And, as I carried it to the car,
its mother circled overhead.
Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman
Birds of the same feather always flock together
A fool fools those who can be fooled
A thief roams the streets with his fellow thieves
The miserable saddens those who allow themselves to be miserable
The naive are played by those who are naive of karma
The materialism catches those who are materialistic
The disrespectful hurt those who have no self respect
The aggressively insecure intimidate those who are submissively insecure
The fake trick those who are inexperience of faking
The dumb roll with the most dumbest
If you are either happy, successful, humble, educated or anything positive; make sure you flock with the feather that's most positive and important to you.
KNOW YOUR WORTH; You cannot exchange gold for stones, that's making a foolish loss. Positivity is always an addition(+) not a subtraction (-). If you are subtracting, don't be suprised if your life turns out to be mostly negative.
IMPATIENCE is the mother of all COMPROMISE, that's why people flock with the wrong people, don't let it catch you..
THE EYEZ are easily fooled, all that glitters isn't gold (things can be gold plated too), so carefully check things. As They say "FOOLS RUSH IN WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD."
NOTHING IS CONSTANT; Money comes and goes, the famous become infamous, friendships ends, beauty fades, people pass away etc. Do not rely on external things to make you happy, once they are gone you will awaken from your dream. Internal happiness is constant; the externall should just make you happiER. Humble yourself and know reality.
INEXPERIENCE is the mother of all REGRET. Life is a journey of experience, never make the same mistake twice. At best surround yourself with the most wise (listen and consider their counsel) so not to make mistakes at all.
THE GUT INSTINCT, if it doesn't feel right it probably isn't. You have either compromised too much for to little or you are blinded or you put ur happiness on external forces which are not constant or you are inexperienced in the ways of life.
ITS ALL IN THE MIND, remember to CONTROL IT, TRAIN IT and to ACT IT OUT and watch yourself rise to a different level in your life.
WAKE UP; a bird who flocks with the wrong birds wakes up sooner than later and flies to his kind of feather.
THE MESSAGE; a bird that flocks to you with patience, sincerity, passion and unconditional love is definitely for keeps because they are worth more than gold.
BY HUSSEIN FARAH
Copyright © Hussein Farah
You’re skin and bones, chick.
Compassion commands me stop,
stare, on my path, where you sleep.
I see dryness, hear stillness, feel silence.
You’re skin and bones, chick.
Were your chirps for worms
silenced in unsound Mother’s ears?
Your wings, too weak,
too still, on your first, failed, flight?
Your plume-less limbs
Coverless in cold night?
Uncovered corpse, bony chick.
No shore water to wash away
your undug green grave
in a low, lonely juniper.
My eyes wash me in salt water.
I have a path; yours ends here
your bones sinking, my brain soaring.
Which frightened robin, fleeing my footsteps,
was your misguided mother? So unlike mine,
who saw her child, underfed, and said,
“You’re skin and bones, my chick.”
Copyright © Alexandra Romanyshyn
Upon the highest branch, glistened with dew,
Of the strongest oak in a forest, dense,
There rests a songbird of divine essence,
With a song as soothing, found far and few.
Beneath her tough wing, hidden warm and close,
A little fledgling rests his weary beak;
Bruised from his flying, too close to the peak,
But sheltered by she who does love him most.
And that little fledgling, high in the trees,
So sweetly guarded close by his true nurse,
May seek a small feed from her beak or purse,
But furthest too fly, he is last to leave.
Though he burned and tarnished his silken wings,
From ambitions flown to close to the sun,
Across the world's oceans that bird would come,
With the loving song his mother bird sings.
Copyright © Darren Mallett
mournful cries fill the air
mother bird calling for its baby
eaten by the cat
mantis catches butterfly
I am sad: yet, that is
the way of nature
loud feathered thud
- flight into eternity
deceptive glass pane
Copyright © john beharry
...and how lovely
to sleep in the womb
of a bird
silk like skin
are being taken care of
as sugar coated thoughts
begin to traverse
the twilight sky
of a summer night
when misty mist comes, sounding
on your jovial, pink lips
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago
On a pile of fragrant petals,
I found a small bird nest.
It had fallen from the plum tree
And settled there to rest.
The blue eggs were all unbroken,
Petals had softened fall.
Mother bird was loudly chirping,
Hovering over all.
I dared not touch the fallen nest
To leave a human smell.
I merely looked into its depths
To see that all was well.
Pushing bright petals around it
To hide it from plain view,
I gave a wave to mother bird
And said, “It’s up to you.”
I did not chance that way again
For a full month or more.
I stopped to check upon the nest
That had been there before.
The eggs were gone, the fallen nest
Was lying all askew.
I worried that bad had happened
To the small eggs of blue.
And then I heard a happy sound
And spied the mother bird.
A message passed from her to me
Without a single word.
I took her song as a thank you
For my feeble attempt
To guard her nest from predators
Who’d treat it with contempt.
There were four balls of downy fluff
On the branch right by her side.
I stopped to admire her little brood,
Then went on with my ride.
Copyright © Joyce Johnson
Across the scarlet sunset ,
I see a little sea-bird.
Pretending to be strong ,
Actually its making a feeble cry.
Flapping wings again and again,
Its afraid and not giving a try.
The great sky and the vast sea ,
Is making its throat dry.
Everybody came to boost it up ,
Finally mother came with a fishful cup.
In the name of God ,
The little one jumped.
With eyes closed and heart thumped.
And wow , its magic ,
Its faith and love.
That made it fly ,
Above the sea and across the sky.
Copyright © Archana Garg
She built her nest of straw and mud,
anchored to the rocks on our entryway.
Through the glass in the front door,
we watched her as she sat up there
on her eggs, allowing babies to grow.
After they hatched, she hovered close,
quarreling at us for coming too near.
She sat motionless on the nest at night,
covering them for hours with her body,
warming with the spread of her wings.
I think she liked that nesting part best;
daylight brought endless hours of work,
bringing worms for wide, hungry mouths
and guarding nearby to keep danger at bay.
Then came the task of teaching them to fly;
an enormous effort for such a tiny mother.
We watched them grow too big for the nest,
crowding so their feathery butts hung over
the edge, their droppings cascading down
over the rocks, onto the porch below.
One morning's surprise brought a view
of an empty nest; the babies had flown.
Mother bird returned to begin once more.*
Amazed to see her back on the nest,
we opened the bird book to find her,
this Eastern Phoebe, who has found
home in Missouri, returning each year
to grace our mornings with sweet calls.
*Note: Our task was to suffer the obstacle course of a ladder, extension
cord, and a continuous fan on the front porch to keep baby birds from
smothering in the heat, plus scrubbing the crud off the porch floor. The
first two broods were okay, but, in July, the third try was a killer.
Copyright © Cona Adams
The Apple PASTURE
Oh how I long
To drift into the apple pasture.
Were once was and all well meet.
A pure and dear site.
Where silver reflection cover the still waters that holds the golden
grains of morality and the grazing souls lie young amounce no stars.
Oh how I long
To drift into the apple pasture
Were winds smell of melon and the trees whisper spring corals in the mellow dark and best of light and time creeps into no tomorrow.
Copyright © JAY JOHNSON
On an open road through the driving rain
She drove fast and deadly like a hurricane
Sad yellow stripes in between white lines
Covered cold dead flowers and some valentines
Her baby grows and her mother cries
A painful evelution right before their eyes
She left him bleeding as the future glowed
From a dying past down the open road
She fights the lions as she curse it all
The men the drugs and the alcohol
The radio dj makes it all look good
With songs about love and of motherhood
She saw her future going down the drain
Her baby's tears feeds her growing pain
A blade in the night and the bad blood flowed
Down in the gutter on the open road
A big black bird at the top of the shelves
Judging what they all did to themselves
With fingernails growing like a raven's claw
She will never see what the big bird saw
Like the drugs of the dying like a martyr's faith
There was light in the dark but no open gate
She hunted the keys to the secret code
As she watched him fade on the open road
Copyright © Steinar Gismeroy Olafsen
< "Hark" the Herald Angels begin to sing
"Jesus"patiently awaits so her children can say their last goodbyes
Cancer is the one thing she will not have to bring
For she earned her wings and is now free to fly
Perception Of Heaven's Contest
Copyright © Katherine Stella
Nature’s Single Dad:
The Australian Emu :
The first 55 days
Emund is busy
partners who’ll put
him to the test.
His pedigree line
has proven with time
that it is now his
turn, to be best.
He hears them emerge
from the bush as
they gather in
answer to nature’s
They dance, and then
go away, they know
they cannot stay;
there is not enough
food for them all.
They dip and they
weave as they mingle
that each has a
With his reputation,
there is no
he is ready to join
in the dance.
‘Bonk! Bonk,’ comes
the sound of another
Emulena!’ he says
with a grin.
Others move to the
side as he leaves
to greet this dancer
as she flounces in.
rhythmic movement of
hips she fluffs up
her boa, it bounces
He matches her mood.
His movements are
as they twist and
twirl in their
He does not fuss
about who takes the
lead, he follows and
their dance now is
With steps that are
light he glides to
he meets her, bows
“Sorry, we cannot
stay longer, we all
must find paddocks
It matters not
whether we all stay
we trust you to know
what to do.”
As she speaks, they
deposit their gifts,
and he hears, as in
chorus they say,
“We know you’ll do
magically, what you
to deliver these in
your own way.”
After completing her
task, Emulena stands
tall and she fluffs
up her feathers once
They follow her lead
in twos, and in
and promenade across
the dance floor.
Left all alone, he
goes back to his
duties and looks
closely at each pale
He checks all for
defects. He sees
they are perfect,
so with care he
covers every one
He sticks to his
task for fifty-five
days in sunshine,
strong winds and
He values each
treasure and tends
them with pleasure
as he, turns each
egg every three
Through his long
lashes he sees
danger coming. He
drops his neck down
like a log.
Feathers flying on
high and red fur
he needs to fool
both bird and dog.
The shells have now
turned a dark bluey
green, there’s an
infertile egg in the
This egg will be
food for his hungry
but he won’t eat or
drink, ‘til they
Each day he looks
up, and turns his
head to the sun as
it rises each
He’ll sit day and
night until the
He knows, that time
to be continued...
Copyright © J Eliza JAMES
I stand in exit door,
Ready to be embraced by nothing,
Just that air waits with open arms,
So I jump into an unseen bosom.
Flying, she holds me gently,
Yet still lets me fall.
Plummeting to an earth I’ve walked on,
Ready to kill me now if silk wings don't open.
Then, a sweet nirvana enfolds this man,
I am gliding gracefully on a fierce wind.
This freedom it gives me I've never known,
Though I may die, doesn't matter in this instant.
Diving swiftly like an eagle,
To the soil where I was born.
I pull this cord that will save me,
My new lifeline which keeps me here.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
Copyright © Robert William Gruhn
It burns and it stings.
More than drowning beneath
More than remaining in a
She hits and I no longer cry.
Why mother, why?
It burned and it stung.
The markings remained,
returned, and were relived
Looking, loving, and little
known loathing were the known
ways of living.
Never was their pity for the
child that cried
Never was their relief for the
child that tried
You were that lovely bird that
understood the complications of
Nothing looked the same in
those dewy browns of yours.
My everbeating would cry tears
The others-they were yet to
Caring Mother, o' so fair
You were that beautiful bird
filled with care.
The others came and were not
alone. Their two suitors sat on
Rampage and rage why did you
I began to wither and wither
slumping along. So very soon I-
the child of fines- became a
The droops of the Lily of the
Valley became the slumping of
My lovely bird the enemy had
taken you and the person you
were is far from near.
For that divine nature left its
intricate self and you became
irretrievable my big bird.
All of your fairness died.
With that went my pride.
Mother, Mother what moved
Your intense spirt vanished only
to supplement a monster.
Mother, Monster and your tar
How did I kill that liver that was
so, so strong?
The lesson of pain was one you
came to learn.
My darling bird why did you
My lovely bird and your big
I'll tell you once, but never
Pain is only a flower for it
blooms and dies
And a mistake can be killed as
quickly as lice.
You dear bird hurt me well.
Though, haven't you heard?
Weakness is a souls greatest
You brought me up, then you
brought me down.
You haved helped, hurt, and
hindered my blazing spirit.
A hero in my heart-I left you
down in your deep black
Escaping those terrible nights
To go for the town of delights.
Copyright © Layla Elkoulily
You lay in the wooden cot,
a broken sparrow,
Crushed. Bony. Frail.
Hair once plumed gold,
greyed to clumped feathers
like ragged trampled wings,
strawed out on the dank pillow.
Face once blushed pink plump,
Jolly kind of soft with life,
Sucked to bone. Nose to Beak.
Echoes of the mask it will soon become.
I stroked this woman
now bent back to foetus pose.
Once sworled to shell,
wrapped inside myself,
Now boned to carcass stick.
I wanted to hold one more time,
frightened the last air would puff to nought from its hollowed breast.
But my sparrow turned and smiled,
a grimace to crack open any gates of envisaged hell.
Macabre teeth, once glowing love and laughter to the skies,
Now pecked to ochre stalks.
The pitiful bird pained to move.
Mucous mouth clacked open wide
To receive some lasting morsel of life.
Only its beady blue gaze
flashed a soul of its former self,
eyes to haunt the sea.
I swallowed back my tide of tears,
waves of memory flooding sands of life we’d shared,
from fledgling dawn cry to this,
the final nesting box.
I wanted to stuff this cot with down
of a million eider.
To cosset and hold soft this scrawn, gnawed through.
Pluck teal, goose, swan.
‘Who would have thought it would come to this?’ it croaked a laugh.
I matched smile with smile.
I held the tiny claw.
Desperate not to cling too much to pain,
too much to past.
I wanted to wrap up this dying bird
Limp, in my hanky.
White folded white, fold on fold.
Run through the streets
shouting at the world, at some unseen power.
She’s mine. She’s safe. Take me.
What cruelty did I do?
What evil must be stuffed in this maternal breast
To hold this daughter dust in my arms?
Copyright © Laura Payne
I was told over and over when I was an innocent four years old,
"Spread your wings, child!"
By the man I loved most, my Grandfather was inspirational.
He was the one that thought me how to read and write.
My parents were never there for me, they were often tipsy,
Smashing the bottles upon the floor and sometimes upon me.
When this happened, my Grandfather was always there to heal my soul,
And he would always say "Spread your wings, child!"
My parents were later found dead, overdosed on the latest drugs.
Even the cruelest people deserved sympathy, I thought as I cried.
They did bring me into this world, even if it was an accident,
So I simply moved along with their memories.
My Grandfather was a strong man as he battled a fierce war of cancer,
His last words were "Spread your wings, child...."
I screamed until my throat was sore, for I had no one else to love, no one,
Was this what the world had to offer a ten year old?
Now, a twelve year old, I have found a sweet family of my own,
A mother that could not have children and left lonely because of it,
She smiled and held me tightly when I first saw her.
Now I have someone to love.
Now, we sing and dance, sit around reading "Oliver Twist,"
With her teasing me and telling me I look like the protagonist, it's true though,
Sometimes on the warm summer nights, we'll watch the stars wink.
Now, I've spread my wings wide open!
Everything I have told you is true :) How could I lie? That wouldn't be right! It's time you got to know me, this poem is my life, reader!
In memory of Oliver Kirkland, my dear Grandfather
Copyright © Oliver Lee
My mother use to tell me a story about living in the woods.
She said during autumn the leaves fell to the grounds and they burn very good.
Her siblings and she would go hunting in the month of October.
The family would store the deer and rabbit meat not to go to the store.
Nature was harsh when it was cold.
When the snow or the freezing rain comes, the birds do not soar in the sky.
The ether would freeze the fouls.
The upper arctic is rigid air.
The birds fly south.
Nature in the winter can bring struggle and strife.
The beauty of the outside can affect life.
Save your money and do not fly high.
You are gambling your stability of sound body and mind.
Bitter Mother Nature is not to be denied.
The beauty of nature and winter signals an end of a productive year.
Plants cessation is seen.
Farmers have harvest crop.
Animals migrate to warmer climates.
All know Mother Nature in her mood swings.
Therefore, pay attention to your surroundings.
Respect Mother Nature and she will respect you.
However, the weather is onset.
The quiet weather sneaks upon us.
Therefore, things can become quite turbulent defining a Bitter Mother Nature’s region.
Penned on May 20, 2014 12:30 A.M. EST!
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker
Happiness is a beautiful smiling word,
That soars the skies like a radiant black bird;
Culling ebony sheen downs from her sable breast
To fluff and cushion the crib of her protecting nest.
Murder and death are conjuring words too;
Sneaking around and stealing your children from you;
And though their bodies pile up in streets and on the bloody ground---
Like trees chopped down when no one’s around, justice hears no sound.
The long arch of justice has been bent backwards to times of old;
The streets have replaced the hanging tree and the noose by a bullet hole.
We now understand the strange fruits stories of which the ancestors once told;
One by one, our little sheep are being justifiably culled from the extended family fold.
While we cannot and must not substitute one tyranny for another,
We will and must protect the seeded child of every black mother.
Copyright © millard lowe
When my head had failed to sooth my heart
Common sense could not be found
Mother Nature hurled her cape of sustenance
In Her beauty, love tumbled around
When darkness from an impaired heart
Cast a spell my way with a leer
Love whispered “quick surround yourself”
A blanket of green earth appeared
When the thunder of my psyche clapped
Fleets of shame soon downward poured
Lighting strikes shook those within my breadth
No light came til the morn
Young spirits frolicked on my bed of green
Elapsed storm left a morning’s dew
Awakened with the sun’s bright rays of hope
A yellow bird settled on arms length bloom
Comfort of innocence and beauty enchanted me
In silence I submerge my thoughts in natures play
I whisper to my heart “it will be just fine”
For in Nature’s light and love, I am blessed today.
Written by : Corrina
Copyright © Corrina Leblond
Escaping from the patterns of my life
From crime and hate and inner strife
I visit a place that is pure and serene
Where i'm alone as a morning bird sings
I followed a path forged in stone
immersed in beauty, that nature owns
It is nature that owns the morning haze
That envelops the glory of this mystic maze
A labyrinth of answers to my dreams
this paradise is false,or so it seems
As the sun beamed its radiant light
i choose a place and did recite
I gasped at the trees and fertile soil
that inherit the flowers as my quill toiled
The flowers have blossomed this early spring
Akin to a babe, immaculate and pristine.
The scent of the air is not of smog and dirt
that blackens the white and decays the dirks
Yet that of a fragrant scent from the flowers
that abides in memory to this very hour.
i heard patter from a creek a distance away
Gentle and calm it enraptured my stay
And to my eyes not a ripple shows
As i induced a wish then tossed a rose
Akin to a morrow, i saw my reflection
Hued in beauty of Mother Nature's protection
For all this beauty that envelops me
unfolds clearly for the world to see
And to the world like a perpetual fire
it flares and glows never to tire
prevailing past the wars hate and crime
the creek remains until the end of time
The morning bird wings again before me
Adieu Mother Nature I'll never defy thee
Yes! the bird of faith will lead the way
To some other secluded haven to stay.
Copyright © anthony Pardi jr
I do not know?
The bird took off into the sky,
Spreading it's wings for flight.
A gentle breeze eased it higher,
Yet further from the ground.
The mother bird gazed on intently,
Protective of it's young.
The bird was gaining height so fast,
It's mum now a mere dot.
The older birds flew up above,
Swooping and diving for fun.
The bird looked down in anxious fear,
At the houses far below.
Never had it been so very high,
That people looked so small.
To him they were now tiny blobs,
Not bigger than him any more.
The breeze around him suddenly ceased,
And the bird started drifting down.
The people below were no longer blobs,
And his mother was entering view.
As he was swooping back down to the nest,
He took one last glance above.
Still the older birds were playing,
Not a single care in the world.
They hadn't to worry, they hadn't to work,
For they had already learnt to fly.
Copyright © Katherine Livingstone
guarding your holly bush nest,
your baby’s calling.
Copyright © Jim Tidd
She watched the mountain intently
Like a bird who’s nestling of dwelling, complains
Yet, neither will move --
A surge of genius
Strikes the hollowed core ~
Worrisome thoughts she shan’t abide…
A mother’s love still strives,
Strong willed fledgling must now -- fly
Search to build, its -- own nest
-- Mother bird soars above the mountain -- mind at rest
An elder once said teach them well in the ways they must go… Like a hawk one must keep a
watchful eye for they are still your prizes; you never know when they may come home to
roost again... Or at least visit…
However, if they can't respect the home then its time
For them to fly on their own...
Copyright © Adell Foster
To identify or classify
the complexity or beauty
of their songs.
what is over that
ridge or hill
a sink-hole, a sand dune, a steep bluff.
What must I do. Organize
the heretofore unorganized. The rabble
of unemployed child abusers.
Molesters of their intimates.
Are there dysfunctional bird families?
Simply put, they do not survive.
We have hope
that everyone alive is essential,
consequential. We classify
The commonplace and everyday
What happens everyday?
Morning is quiet, everyone at work.
Home writing, watching birds.
Afternoons, kids come back from school.
Evenings, watch tv.
Scotch and Star Trek.
Captain Picard's problems eclipse
ours who stayed behind.
So, what am I trying to do.
Organize the unemployed, the welfare mothers
into a flying chevron of purposeful explorers?
Copyright © Robert Ronnow
The Stellaluna story, in verse.*
Hanging upside down
on a tiny tree limb,
she sleeps in daylight
with wings folded in.
No feathers on this one;
just fur, soft as down.
With wings spread wide,
she searches the ground.
Nocturnal, she forages
to assuage her appetite,
feasting on ripe fruit
in the black of night.
* Stellaluna, a baby bat, is the star of a children's book by the same name, written by Janel Cannon. An Owl attacks her mother, she falls off and into a nest of baby birds. She hates worms as food, and insists on hanging upside down, outside the nest, to sleep. Mother bird is frantic, to no avail. Stellaluna teaches her nest mates a few bad habits, like flying around in the dark.
Copyright © Cona Adams
Once there was a nest
high in a tree
where no one could even reach it
In that tree was a little bird
who knew everything
that his mom said to do
because his mom said it in a way
that he could hear in his egg
For that, he giggled
when he hatched.
He was not able to fly
but he was able to walk
He walked to his mom
and they lived happily ever after
and never went anywhere without each other.
Copyright © Ava Carney