Trees rattle like bones against the glass
and somewhere in the distance
there is thunder, waiting
time moves painfully slowly
turning days and nights like pages
and yet, each new morning
a lonely sparrow returns
he sings through the aftermath
of the hours of darkness
knowing that warmth is temporary
and nests are fragile things
on mornings that may betray him
the sparrow knows otherwise
for joy unused is joy lost
©Ann Bagnall
Annie's Poetry 