Life sings in these poplars
with the wind’s voice
and the voices of the birdfolk.
A buzzard cries, high and plaintive,
for her lost fledgling.
Daily poem: August stanza 27
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Life sings in these poplars
with the wind’s voice
and the voices of the birdfolk.
A buzzard cries, high and plaintive,
for her lost fledgling.
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Jane Dougherty Writes 
one of these days I will have to try to speak your poems outloud they beg for that, maybe you could record one?
I don’t like my voice enough for that. Not sure what I hear in my head when I write, but it isn’t me 🙂
A fairy? A merprincess?
Someone from another world probably 🙂
Can I get a passport to that world?
I don’t think you need one. It’s the kind of place without frontiers, geopolitics or sin 🙂
PERFECT ! Sign me up!
We’ll go together 🙂
I actually really wish we could
Still think you could reconsider a recording … nag nag
Nah. It would spoil the magic 🙂
Well I’m in agreement on that
🙂
The birds are both active and restless here today as well. I wish I knew what they know and feel in their feathers and bones….(K)
There are so many dead birds about here. There’s hardly any cars but they still manage to get hit, and lots of chicks wandering about looking lost.
I haven’t seen many dead birds here yet–that’s a good thing.
The bodies don’t usually hang around long. Nature’s clean up service doesn’t waste time.
A heart rending noise.🌹🌹
It is! Almost human.
Yes indeed 💜
🙂
😊