Poetry With No Prizes 2

birdsong at morning
and the unfettered skies
above the ant farms of the world

and it is no surprise
that we don't want to board the trains,
the buses, the remains of our lives

after merely glancing at fantastic sunrise
but we endure
sure of our prize.

but birds are free.
free in their chirping green
or in their decimated

Falls,still glorious or spiraling
in the cold and myriad songed.
and this you realize

all on your own, this pure gold
the way you did as a child,
is music,

poetry, with no prize.

mary angela douglas 3 november 2016