Thrasher's Call

The little thrasher thrums with joy secure, unwav’ring avian hope for bits of home where oft had lay a pinestraw harvest sure but now, alas, was famine: concrete, stone. The dusty hues of chalk no wonders pose to downy wings and eyes whose native skies yield daily crops of blooming sunset-rose yet stoop to search my yard, where surely lies the fallen nesting graces from above, the fronds of forest trees — not palm, but pine — but either way, encircling hands of love that never once it doubts, these gifts divine. To be a bird! Not soaring, but aground — assured my Maker’s comfort can be found.