waits patiently to sing its song.
The trees are quiet, wind is dead.
Soon dawn will break. It won’t be long.
The air is calm, the sky is red,
but perched up high for all to see
without a wink of sleep our friend
maintains his outpost rigidly.
A breeze begins to cross the plain.
It starts up gently, then it grows.
The stoic, weathered weathervane
without a warning stirs and crows.
but perched up high for all to see
without a wink of sleep our friend
maintains his outpost rigidly.
A breeze begins to cross the plain.
It starts up gently, then it grows.
The stoic, weathered weathervane
without a warning stirs and crows.