The rooks are loud in ragged trees,their caws like weathered cloth.They shake the morning into lifeas Easter stirs the froth.The blackbirds in the rafters wakeand test the warming air.Their chicks, half-feathered, blink at dawnas though surprised it’s there.And in the hush between the calls,a softer truth appears:that every trembling, newborn wingoutpaces all our fears. Copyright… Continue reading