Morning comes as a falcon finds a fluttering dove.
Morning hungers for the feast of the day’s harvest.
She gives upon the chanting songbirds so enveloped
In their self directed sermon and convicts herself
To the choice of not desiring nor feeding on those
Beings who cannot see themselves.
Though their songs sound bright and glorious,
They are less than empty echos in their recitation
Of the litanies of a forlorn god.
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