Art Milkes

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Little eyes, little ears, little nose,
little fingers, little hands, little toes—
along with the start
of one little heart,
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So clear with the moon full and bright,
the sky, what an awesome sight.
Try to count every star.
You won't get very far.
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The birds, flying South, know the way.
God tells them where and which day.
He has built in the fear,
when Winter is near,
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In position and out of sight,
hiding until the time was right,
the cat crawled forward with such skill,
the bird could not escape the "kill." It happened almost every day.
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