It is a time of baby birds,
tiny choruses at intermittent times
from hidden places somewhere in the trees,
parents busy nabbing bugs
from fir and fern,
a flit that finally reveals their home
There is a joy in knowing without seeing
the daily hum of life,
hearing it move between the glimpses,
within the rustle of the wind,
sensing that, the longer we are here
the more of it we’ll understand.
©Wendy Mulhern
June 11, 2019
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