The time of year is here when leaves turn brown
And well-fed birds point young beaks at the sky
The time of growth is over; they have found
Their feet; now they must flap their wings and fly
Over the sea and land to some new dry
Warm shelter which they’ll make their own and fill
With their own stolen sticks; where they’ll apply
Inherited instincts, do what they will
Tiptoeing on their own soil, dart and drill
For buried treasure moving underground
Sharp-eyed and wary by day, and, perched high
On distant branch, work done, ready to trill
Their thrilling songs, our simple tunes outgrown
Replaced by rare rapturous melody
Sun 21 Sep 2008
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