A half-cocked call
of a morning bird strikes the midnight clock.
She squawks, “I’m here! I’m here! Is any bird or flock out tonight
searching for a hen to hold and a cradle to rock?”
In the frozen
tundra, she is found in a winter’s night,
still singing; creatures lurk and listen with delight. For the moon
in its simple, arcing flight, marvels at the bird’s plight.
She stills before
the storm. Beasts loom, lusting for the bird’s gloom
to finally trap her. Her heart fails as the shadow’s laughter
booms and her tune falls upon her infant’s forest tomb.
But once, when
nights were whole, and shadows were accepting,
but prowlers had stolen heart and home, her angel evermore.
Mother and daughter torn, thrown into the lion’s den.
our nightly morning bird left to mourn, her
song sours each twilight. Her monster, hiding behind their scars
unmended, deep and finding no pardon,
However, she keeps
her standard watch over their peaceful sleep
as creatures stir. Her song climbs the treetops; sweeps the forest floor.
Her rival hears not, but she sings, “Come Lord and restore.”