The Meadowlark
In a field both sere and stark,
stood a forlorn Meadowlark.
Motionless, he eyed the ground,
ears alert for any sound.
Unaware, an insect stirred,
deep in dust and cockleburs.
A grain of sand became dislodged
and rolled between the lone bird's claws.
The bird allowed himself to blink,
his beady eyes as black as ink.
The bug crawled out, antenna waving,
which only piqued the lone bird's craving.
With one swift hop, the bird attacked.
The bug, alas, a midday snack.
©Danielle White
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