Darkness broods over trees like a mother
by Glenn Bagshaw
and the leaves cradle sparrows, still popping,
winnowing restless needs of their downy suits,
preening and tweaking on branch. They twitter,
set fluff-tufted, with looks always skyward-
Air is loved more than the thought of morning-
Birds' necks spin and tails quirk beaks. Song comes on;
and stillness? Far flown in their ounce-bouncing lives!
They wake light, then flutter in the coiled shade,
where from green hallowed shadows they find their
Sylvia, goddess or woodland maiden.
Such dreams are due at dawn, at dew of dawn,
and now they glide and dive cold, crystal lanes
of heaven. Soon, too soon caped darkness looms,
winged vaster than dreams, over their quick lives....