A wonderful bird is the Pelican, Its beak can hold more than its belly ...

16
Alive
by Lucy Sheehan
As the sun rests atop the trees,
resting, yawning its final breath, before the moon
takes its giddy watch over the milky fields,
one takes time to walk amidst the dying light,
amidst all that was once dead – alive.
And atop the tallest trees, and amid the bowing reeds
the furtive moorhen glances – busy among the boughs
to pluck plumes and clinging threads
to grace her little house, where she as safe as any
might subsist and rest, like me – alive.
And the swaying air is full of moths,
to flit and die away across the yellowing pasture,
and the deer in an ephemeral glance – dances,
to and fro atop the grasses, amidst the swaying heads of seeded pips
that reeling burst and sing along the breeze – alive.
And pausing at the gate – before the humming field,
merrily life comes forth to greet me, takes my hand, and beckons
freely, congratulates and I, though weakly,
stumble forward – I’m human, and meekly
thank God
I’m alive.