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Poem

As I listen to the lark’s surreal melody to her mate.
I wonder does she ever feel there’s too much on her plate?

Ever beside him juggling, tediously feathering the nest,
in her discomfort struggling, incubating without rest. 

I wonder if in her daydreams does she laze as her mind lingers
in bygone days pursued by teams, of young and gallant singers?

Or does she occupy her days with tending her small brood 
not entertaining winsome ways as gaping nibs crave food?

 Does he while out a’gathering, squirming tidbits for their young,
ever give way to lathering ‘cause his work is never done?

Does his keen eye ever wander over lighter creamy breasts
allowing himself to ponder his days of youthful quests,

or does his steadfast honor seek but to gather and bring home
supper for each tiny beak never thinking once to roam?

As I hear the song bird warble, with expectancy to her mate
I’m thankful for each morsel placed in love upon my plate.

And listening to the lark refrain his bride’s devoted call,
I find being called a birdbrain the best compliment of all.

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