Breaking through the dense gray mists, shattering
the mornings illusions, the robin throng
shreds the distortions of fog, tattering
daybreaks shadowy images into piping song.
Feather and bone, hollow drumming of flight
with heart beating skyward where it belongs
on feathered wings, the sky opens far from sight
reveling in the freedom of cloud and song.
Gleaning the golden field, robins whistle
and sing. Cheerful flock in the winter meadow
testing the mettle of ripe wheat and thistle-
for they do not reap nor do they sow.
See the birds of the air, no single hour of worry or care,
so much more than they are we, with only grace to bear.
*** The idea was to take a form and break the rules – but I think the only thing that fits this prompt is that I wrote a sonnet of all things! And I am quite sure that I broke rules somewhere along the line. smiles