Birdsong, 2:50 a.m.

Leaves on the tree stream like a woman’s hair. 

Whistle of wind, ship-creak sounds from branches that sway. 

Silver around a passing cloud, revelation in a sepia sun. 

Dart of birds as they leave their shadows behind.

The way the fir tree dances with the wind. 

On the forest, balls of mistletoe, out of reach. 

A gull. Music of wind. Fine shimmer of rain, 

rain at the edge of the wind. 

Ever changing pattern of cloud. 

The wheel of crows… 

Dream in the afternoon, the rhythm of breath. 

Does the dawn come so early? 

Published by Jonathan Chant

Writer

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