Way out there at the end of the branch,
So trusting.
Painstakingly woven out of treasures,
pretty pink string, bits of twigs and grass. Feathers.
Leaving a part of himself there and
being OK with that.
How is it that the bird knows?
It is only for a season-
He won't get it back.
And yet, he was up before dawn again,
Praising the Lord.
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