A Five Minute Poem (That is all I have left before lunch is over).

Ornithology

The grace of feathered flight
lifts dark minds from their vaults.
We could not sing like this,
the gentle achromatic flow
of whistles and of calling
slowed for our perception
turns to musics ever known
to man from ancient times.
This sound, so functional
has beauty underlying
all its birth in nature.
We live under this
and ever under live soulessly.