Daw
In the twilight’s quiet confluence,
Where shadows stretch like whispered thoughts,
A jack-daw perches, a stickler for the dusk,
Its habiliment, a cloak of night,
Shimmers with a luminescence,
A flicker of stars caught in feathers,
Defying the encroaching dark.
Fiddlesticks to the chaos of the day,
It preens, an artist in its own propriety,
Tending to an opus of existence,
Each feather a note in the symphony of silence,
Where the world spins in its frantic dance,
Yet here, the daw finds sustenance,
In the small, the overlooked, the banal.
Blatancy of life surrounds it,
A din of rustling leaves,
The acorn’s quiet promise,
Yet it remains unruffled,
A solitary figure in the fading light,
Personifying the paradox of freedom,
And the weight of restraint,
A reminder that in the ordinary,
Beauty often hides, biding its time.
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