The Meadowlark he sings no more
Eclipsed by infernal freeway roar
His song enters still through mind’s door
Yet, listen as I might, ‘Neath moon and starry night
The melody hath now…been consigned to lore
The Meadowlark no more he sings
Air devoid of dulcet chirpings
His absence doth bring sad musings
Yet, nothing I can do, alone, bereft and blue
Will return his voice…those sweet offerings
The Meadowlark no more sings he
He doth not forage upon asphalt lea
Where once he trilled atop stout trees
Yet, on that very spot, stands inky parking lot
And litter gross scattered…by inanimate breeze
My Meadowlark sings he more?...no
Where he resides I scarcely would know
Perhaps quaint field where wildflowers grow
Yet, his song in my heart’s heard…precious little bird
To perchance reach aging head…pensive, tinged with “snow”
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