Dawn Song of the Last Living Red-breasted American Robin

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The waking Illinois breeze
sinking in the jubilation that
bursts across the clouded
shrouded disc where the
morning comes unbundled
woven into the golden acres
swaying, hissing and soothing

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The shaking strings of marionettes
those eagles parting kisses to the
horizon, their feathers weeping
in the rolling warmth of daylight
twinkling and dripping all around
as pastel mice scurry into the mud
pressing their feet in tiny circles
to escape their fear of death

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The blossom opens, virginal
knowing not the touch of God
though her petals moistly cling
to the sweetened, humming air
her emerald stem bends and aches
she touches her neck to her brother
calling to the soldier drone to place
his feet gently on her waiting breast

Two small footprints line the road
laughing and delighting as night dies
mingling together as their master
wanders into the hopeless streams
of passing time and its cruel glory