Bush

No birds in hand,

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.