Five or six years old
Showing age and uselessness
And this is a perfect opportunity to post the poem I wrote on Friday night at my young writers group, Midnight Muse. The prompt was (basically) to begin or end with the phrase "listen to the wings of the nightingale watch." I went for the obvious, but I like the juxtaposition of different senses and affects.
The Taste of Migration
Listen to the wings of the nightingale watch
for winds blowing strong from the east.
Tawny feathers scent night currents
for autumn's sweet fragrance.
Icy wisps of northern breeze
whistle between avian claws
as auburn beak lances a hint
of the flock's gathering restlessness.
Rustled leaves blush to lime
as green retreats with summer's defeat.
Gales of gold paint quivering teardrops
that rustle around a watchful nightingale.
Alighting frigid whispers,
the bird escapes its roost,
seeking waves of sun,
green, and boundless freedom of wing.