Carving to build a nest under the sun and the shadow of the huge tree trunk,
I see several young birds, resting their feathers.
Am I too late? I sadly ask.
My feathers are ruffled and battered by squabble in the sky.
I flew too high, may be.
My wings were clipped yet I flung in the air.
I struggled to reach for the sky but was brought down.
I am tired yet refuse to be bogged down by the small, upsetting defeat.
I am a bird. I only know how to fly and soar in the sky.
Yet, there are new and more beautiful birds, fired with zest and energy.
Is my time out?
Only time will tell.