Several in the bush,
Their chirping
Fainter
With each passing day
As I wait
For just one
To fly out at me.
Still
For so long,
My joints
Creak
Whenever I move;
Lifelessly hoping
For something to
Break.
Once
Too much happened
And then
There was nothing;
Something then
Threatened,
‘til I fled
Because it felt wrong.
Now there is
Nothing again,
And the
Rustling birds
Become restless
In the bush:
One-by-one,
They are flying away.
