What is her life, when measured by the sun's
Internal clock that times its furnace fires?
She lights on to a branch, and warms her wings
Awhile. Soon she'll flutter to the ground.
And all around her, teeming green life grows,
Intent upon its own designs. She takes
A moment to survey the twisting stream,
The vines that reach from tree to tree, the flash
Of feathers in the sky. While she sings
Her loss and gain, she searches once again
To find her own peculiar counterweight,
Her offset to the grave, and clears the way
With promises of better things to come.

©2016 Michael Fraley

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