The Lone Bird

Perched in the golden glow, It hadn’t come down that low, It was a small town, Painted with varying shades of brown. The commuters looked up in surprise, They hadn’t seen a bird of that size, The bird had a yellow plumage, It was a mystery of the age. It had come from the highland, Where it had escaped a poacher’s band, It was in search of a new abode, Where predators had no road. As the sun took its place in the sky, It spread its wings and flew high to a place where it wouldn’t be the cynosure of all eyes, A place where hope lies. January 6, 2024.