Sing with the birds. A poem by John McNamee

The ‘birds’ are grounded.
Only cargo moving.
The rivers clear.
The seas improving.
The skies are clear.
The clouds are gone.
We’re all at home.
Nobody moving.
The trees are budding.
The grasses growing.
All will be grand.
This THING is going.
The ‘birds’ are grounded.
The birds sill singing