Birdhouse

A house of dust and feathers flown,
In an unforgiving wind, too long alone.
A murder of crows jealously guard what they cannot have,
A flock of sparrows, to better fields, fly at long last.
Its weathered wood does not look above to the pale blue sky,
Indifferent clouds do not look down as they float by.
If we ask, these walls might tell of tales past long ago.
A voice on the wind then whispers: “We may never know.”

Thanks to my friend Carole D. For permission to use her photo.

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