Newborn Thing

The skies are gray come daybreak,
No single trace of blue,
No celestial lake.

Yet upon that distant slash
That sunders earth from sky
One bird is seen flying north.
It settles down into the mire
Waiting for the last moon's rays
To expire.

The earth is new; the dew is fresh.
The trees are endless nets
Of softly sifting mesh.
Then, hark, the morning sun
Walks upon the earth.
Night is done.

The glowing sun burns through the cloud,
Clearing paths for dawn,
Shining proud.
The bird stirs and takes to wing,
To sing to all
This newborn thing.

Copyright © 1998-2005. Michael Quin Heavener. All Rights Reserved.