drifting strands of music
rustles the grass
in green meadows painted in the sky
.
ruffling my feathers as I gather
twigs of your thoughts
one after another after another
.
dry, dusty and brittle
.
softening them
with taste of our wetness
lingering in my beak
.
weaving a nest
in one nook of
the old sacred tree
.
where our silences
pause to listen
to dreams making love
.
