Between the swaying boughs
Of two lonesome firs
Chirps a mother bird mocking the rising sun

“Why do you mock the coming day mother?”
Her baby chicks chirp
“Do we not need the light for warmth?
To fly?
To eat?”

“No my dearest, it is not the light I mock
But more so the rise that acts as a clock
Counting down the moments until you seek
Warmth
Flight
And food
For yourself, leaving me an empty nest
Alone, between these two lonesome firs”