The bird

A bird taps on our window every day,
Fast as flying leaves whirl in a gale.
But now he perches on the potted bay.
He feels the weather as the blind do braille.

This bird is faithful and I love him dear.
He’s thoughtless as he pecks upon the glass.
I hope he has a modicum of fear,
For who knows when a sparrow hawk will pass?

I see him like a human soul forlorn
Struggling to discern his own true way.
For soon he may be taken by a storm
But blithely he will eat, and after play.

The smallest bird has trust in the Unknown
By his example, our right way is shown

I welcome comments and criticism

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