There is something about the song
Of birds, on a cold, January day,
That makes me wish to stay,
Out in this wood,
As joy, or grief.
Although, we know
That joy is, too often brief.
Oft flits across the face, then is gone
In the hearts of men
They hear the birds
Pour out words,
To our feathered friends,
Not our ends).
My dog revels in the sscents of grass,
Look up to the sky
And think “all this will pass”,
(A thought that he can not grasp).
Yet he, and the birds that fly,
Are happier than I.