Scott Whitby, 2020
A Martin comes another Spring
Searching for a hole just right
Purple feathers, slick and sheen
She follows soon, she just might
In that hole they build a nest
And sing and sing and do a thing
Then there's eggs and then she rests
Getting ready for tiny wings
He brings her meals
From far far flights
He stays for it's his will
When day becomes the night
She sits and waits, it seems slow
Little eggs to break
How do they know
What they could make?
Little ones wet, not pretty
Will they live, be slick or sheen?
Will they know to be ready
To take their turn to do a thing?
Forever it has been so long
For only to perpetuate
The birds and others carrying on
They'll do it again, they can't wait
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