Song Bird Soliloquy, II
I dance freely in these plains; bitter winds, sweet-tempered soul.
Gliding over each hill with spontaneity in my gait.
As I run, silver grass tops brush my face.
Freedom overcomes me — an inrush of joy.
I float — eagle eye perplexed at such a spectacle.
These pastures nourish my bloom.
The wind whistles between us.
Day is cold; the moment is tender.
With our fingers interlocked, the silver grass returns to its familiar sway, freely dancing as it pleases. Our footsteps — measuring those from before.
Day turns to eve; matchstick to kindling.
House turns to home.
