Voice Of The Birds

• Keysha Kent, Grade 6
• Poetry
• 2016

The wind softly blows,
A tune nobody knows.
The mocking jays sing,
Their voices echo and ring.

The darkness is still,
The rosellas' voices are shrill.
What we call these things are just words,
Repeated to us in the voices of birds.

A fuzzy grey horizon is the first light of dawn,
While the magpies are chirping, the crows mourn.
Here, in the wild, words do not have a voice,
For the animals here sing the tunes of their choice.

As our eyes sweep across a land that can never be tamed,
We search and discover tings that can only be named.
What we call these things are just words,
Repeated to us in the voice of the birds.