Of Birds And Living Language

Words lost in the tornado

Of Birds And Living Language

Like the dangling conversation incomplete

The one rising over Steeples by the simple folk

Town people speak a broken language above the storm

Difficult to understand under normal circumstances

They gather in the square where it is always Sunday

Ancient towers echo every word they speak

Thunder comes to open up a blackened sky

Echoed in the central well on colder water

Drawn up by children on a rope and bucket

While the contents splash and spill when surfaced

The Earth is quick to soak it up to make it disappear

Dry thirty dirt is quicker to drink it down

Hide the sin of waste within the soil

Parents look around for something worthier to rumor

No one repeats a single syllable because of bells

Many church bells loud enough to wake the dead

But there are black birds to carry words away

In their beaks like bread crumbs to the nest

It is their business

Young ones require nourishment to grow

Little birds eat everything in sight

Including worms and words they think delicious

As fashioned in their language in a chirp

It's all the same to them when they are famished

All morsels for the soul and body are the same

Birds never go to church with open mouths

They don't know how to pray

Chirping while they feed, they dangle on infinity

The nest is home but dangerous in the living tree

Wings must wait for their development

Swinging to and fro with humans down below

In for a tornado