in the pink dawn of morn a flight dizzies of restraint
its shapely breast enlightened by the too slow rising sun
behind cheerful demeanor a deft, watchful eye may taint
the gossamer certainty of which the fowl had none

silenced by loss of hope, he stares pointedly from the light
but it would take only the bat of a butterflys wing
to free the sparrow of its woven cage, and let it sing