Tuesday, October 4, 2011



Sometime, somehow, this heart
must learn to stop on some sill.
Flitting, it will not find its perch,
like the migrant wood thrush,
flying from branch to branch—
nowhere as happy as the fawn
nuzzling its mother’s neck
at the edge of the woods where
home is. Will this heart soon
find its dawn, its perch, its home?

— Albert B. Casuga

Prompt: Dawn. A migrant wood thrush flits from branch to branch along the edge of the woods. In the yard, a grown fawn nuzzles its mother’s neck.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 10-03-11

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