The wild savage song

Circling,

turning,

like some feathered dance celebrating the joy of their own existence

Moving to the sound of their own song,

they dart constantly,

erratically weaving a web of their own design

Spiralling out,

then drawn back to the centre of their stage,

where I stand,

surrounded by flashes of brown and black

I stand frozen,

arms outstretched,

in awe of their fearless dance,

filled with the knowledge that mankind has grown deaf to the rhythmic song of the animal heart,

the wild savage song

that drives these dancers in their pulsating circles

And I am filled with mourning at humanities loss