The lark, calmly sitting at the edge of the pond,
Swept up in the poetry of the water.
A lark floats down impossibly soft,
Takes her downy feathers in his own,
Breathes into her warm beak,
Her world devoted to his birdsong.
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November 12, 2009 by wilddangerflower
The lark, calmly sitting at the edge of the pond,
Swept up in the poetry of the water.
A lark floats down impossibly soft,
Takes her downy feathers in his own,
Breathes into her warm beak,
Her world devoted to his birdsong.
