On the Mortal Edge

Old oak takes time to grow intense Each year tumbles wrinkled leaves before the snow Slow in the morning to rise higher Shad covers mortality below Cracking branches show maturity Limp on the timber twigs Lingering still beneath cold bark Sparrow eggs in nesting homes up there Oval is their nature; wait to crack Smaller birds spin blue and yellow Weave speed like magic on the air Through dark ages of green foliage Collisions are rare while darting tangled obstacles In an out instinctively Old oak compliments the activity With good intentions the tree holds fast Bare to exposure, the fragility of life Through the mortal edge birds fly