On a baby bird in its nest

Behind this barricade of twigs, leaves
And cotton fluff constructed by spit and love,
I look into blue that screams of impossibility
And infinity, its clarity veiling promises
Of places beyond the horizon. Teeming within
The gold-green glitter of trees that swish
With mad abandon to the touch of wind
There is adventure, joy and danger too
That swoops down suddenly from above.

My parents call to me, flitting
And hanging upside down from branches.
But I have not yet learned to sing
The song that arises, wordless,
From the depths of my heart and bursts
From my throat, nor found the rhythm
Of wings that sail the wind beneath,
Riding each dip and swell with confidence.
So I cheep timid sounds and rock the nest
With feeble fluttering, until soon
The rise of wind will awake in me
The the surge of heart-song.
On that day I shall soar, singing,
Into the wide wonderful world that awaits.

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