In Newark, a bird landed,
of skies weary, merry its eyes.
An entire continent of humanity
had been under its wings,
incontinent prattle by its side.
Yet, when we move up close,
birds that so gracefully soared
are the embodiment of anxiety.
Mostly so in Spring, nesting,
collecting twig and straw
out of the best tree and field
that while soaring they saw.
Drinking from a nearby pond,
they cool down for a new round
until down the sun goes,
their chirp piercing the dusk
before the tranquil night.
Half the work being done,
soon our bird will fully rest
its bright plumage and breast
amidst the fruit of its toil.
And then, seen from the soil,
secure, a work of much art,
its nest will become a new ark.
