Someone's birds are lying in the grass,
looking as if the wind were full of knives.
Samaritan, walk gently as you pass
these quiet lives.
Give up your blind, huntsman, come and claim
these golden things you never quite believed.
Why sit and stare, as if the look of pain
could be deceived?
The wind plays tricks--lifts into the sights
birds we left behind in trilling cage.
The trigger's curve contains the gift of flight--
the song's rage.
Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie