Thirsty little finch
Perched along the edge
Departed from its nest
Came of age and fledge
Spreads its little wings
No longer having doubts
He takes flight, into the sky
And migrates, headed south

How time
Eats away at our words
Like kernels of discontent
Tossed about
And taken by caustic birds
On the qui vive
Feeding off our book
Of broken pieces