A half-cocked call

of a morning bird strikes the midnight clock.

She squawks, “I’m here! I’m here! Is any bird or flock out tonight

searching for a hen to hold and a cradle to rock?”

In the frozen

tundra, she is found in a winter’s night,

still singing; creatures lurk and listen with delight. For the moon

in its simple, arcing flight, marvels at the bird’s plight.

She stills before

the storm. Beasts loom, lusting for the bird’s gloom

to finally trap her. Her heart fails as the shadow’s laughter

booms and her tune falls upon her infant’s forest tomb.

But once, when

nights were whole, and shadows were accepting,

but prowlers had stolen heart and home, her angel evermore.

Mother and daughter torn, thrown into the lion’s den.

Now

our nightly morning bird left to mourn, her

song sours each twilight. Her monster, hiding behind their scars

unmended, deep and finding no pardon,

 they cower.

However, she keeps

her standard watch over their peaceful sleep

as creatures stir. Her song climbs the treetops; sweeps the forest floor.

Her rival hears not, but she sings, “Come Lord and restore.”