David C Probst
A stormy night it was that shook the trees
Their lofty heads dishevelled by the wind
Like humans waking from their restless sleep
Deprived of vigour, diffusèd in their minds.
That night the blackbird clinging to its nest
Attempting to preserve its fragile breed
From being swept away by zephyr’s jest
Made way to nature’s deadly, heedless deed.
Abandoned and exposèd thus did lie