Passing Bird

A little something a certain someone inspired :)

Briefest of flickers, a snipped wick without flame,

The bird passed overhead. A dark comet of feathers,

A fine costume indeed for a part without name.

 

Entirely free from all earthly  tethers,

Belonging to that moment behind a closed eye,

She is the air that chases the weather.

 

And from her perch, where distinction dies

On the surf of night’s retreating wave,

Which passes over all, she spies

 

A thousand milling ants, working to their grave.

Without  a thought or any pair

Worthy of her time to save.

 

But what sits on that branch up there?

Blink and let it disappear.

Author's Note

A work in progress, so don't be too hard on it haha