Meadowlark

written in December '23

four states are largely silent

this time of year because their

state bird have moved outside

their breeding range…

 

the winter is fierce, lacking mercy

so they fly to places that are

more amenable, much kinder

to the feathered friends…

 

and then, one random day

a few months into the new year,

the flutes heard from the

prairie grasses are heard again,

the black throats and yellow chests

are seen again…

 

spring has come, but as we near

the day that someone’s savior was born,

it’s still several long months off…

 

and like the animals that live up here,

the farm equipment that assist in

feeding Americans and the world

are in hibernation until the flutes

go off again, alarm clocks that

are welcoming and ambient…

 

the winter is the least liked season

by so very many people, so the summer

ground of the meadowlark is sparsely

populated basically devoid of human life…

 

flyover country, the literal definition of it…

 

but for the meadowlark, it’s fly into country

at least for some part of the year…

 

and when they do, it’s the best time of year

because climate Christmas has come…

 

most wonderful, it truly is