This thing,
It is a sign,
For the days to come
In a young fledgling’s life.
This thing,
Begins as a stream,
Flows like a river,
Until suddenly,
The truth unfolds like a waterfall.
This thing,
Is like the deep blue ocean.
The pressure crushes
The little bird’s fragile bones.
Some choose to fly away,
Others choose to meet the water
With wings spread wide.
This thing,
It is dangerous.
It is a predator,
Lurking over its prey.
It is a beautiful little bird,
Yet when it turns,
It is a hawk
That strikes with a killing blow.
But this thing,
It is sweet.
Like the cherry blossoms that bloom,
Every spring.
Two birds
Flying,
Their wingtips touching,
Soaring for the sky
And beyond.
This thing,
It is called Love,
And though hearts are broken,
Though wings break,
It is beautiful,
In its own way….
