Full  moon silver frosted leaves; glassing dew robed sycamore sleeves. Sagacious spiders (masters of weave), slept snug and warm beneath creaking eaves. Our creek roared fierce with a late spring rain. All things full must surely wane. Perpetual blossoms should not be sad yet how do I sing when I am mad? Atomic beats drove me insane. The sight I saw played in my brain. I wondered, “Does the sky feel pain?” Suddenly black on black from front to back, a Raven soared into attack. The hawk’s quick eye did catch the beast but not before the raven’s feast. The hawk chick fell from the sycamore to the rocky banks of the canyon floor. The rest, of course, is etched in lore. An angel garbed in feathered dress descended from her perch of rest. The battered babe, his blood now cold, rose from the dead on wings of gold. Miraculous in the Phoenix mold; fell from the skies then resurrected: A god-shot is quite unexpected. For when the reaper comes it’s time to go. Since the first dawn this has been so. But then again, how’d I know? Heart returned to our beloved’s sky, & then the glint in our dear chick’s eye. The babe ascended his lofty nest to the greatest comfort, a mother’s breast. Successful in her Angel quest, our heroine in feathered dress returned to where all angels rest. And to this day this lore I’ve told delights all children, both young and old.


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