[In my maternal village, I once saw a bird, whose identity
still escapes me, flying one fine winter morning over
the nearby field. A truly pleasant morning sight!
Some words ]
Behind winter’s soul your stature concealed
but your motion through this vapory sky
cleaves open the mist till upon my eyes
you scatter your charm thus with wonder filled
my senses revel and solitude yields
to every beat of your wings and my sighs.
Through diligence your unsung hardship cries
which your flight’s view acquaints me with. Like fields
that in wet chill and wintry dryness stand,
your feathery body endures this cold.
Wreathed your labor shall be with garland
of fertility. Young wings shall unfold
and through season-hued skies as they ascend
the fields shall have molded lush rural gold.