Separation — A Poem

Weaving through

the misted morn,

through soft-furred edges

of gray chill,

I stirred a cloud of birds —

blackbirds, all.

As one, they rose,

an avian inhalation,

a gasp

of feathered wings;

when I only wish to be

the tree

in whose branches

they might alight.

–C.Birde

Created with Nokia Smart Cam

“Misted” — C.Birde, 12/15

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