The Spell Of Twit And Who Poem by Micronjan (Micron)

Moonlight knots the woodland tight,
Roots remember older nights.
Moss and bark begin to hum
As the first soft twit is sung.

It rises like a signal flame,
A feathered charm, a whispered name.
Across the dark, the answer flows—
A hollow who the woodland knows.

Not sound alone, but magic cast,
A binding spell from future, past.
So neither soul is ever lost,
No wing strays far, no shadow crossed.

They stitch the night with call and reply,
Threading stars through branch and sky.
Each note a rune, each pause a sign,
Marking where their spirits align.

And if you listen, holding still,
Beyond the edge of human will,
You'll hear the woods breathe back the truth:
Love speaks in twit, returns in who.