Entry tags:
The rat race
I am a mother now, it's not a race
I've slowed down to my baby's pace
We see a bird - we stop and stare
As long as he is standing there
I wonder why his beak's so sharp?
And could we hear his beating heart?
His feathers seem all of a piece
More like a fur or woolly fleece
Why cock his head?
Why look away?
What has this bird eaten, today?
Where is his nest, does he have eggs,
Would I hop, if I had such legs?
Do birds have babies too, and stop
And stare at people as they shop?
I've slowed down to my baby's pace
We see a bird - we stop and stare
As long as he is standing there
I wonder why his beak's so sharp?
And could we hear his beating heart?
His feathers seem all of a piece
More like a fur or woolly fleece
Why cock his head?
Why look away?
What has this bird eaten, today?
Where is his nest, does he have eggs,
Would I hop, if I had such legs?
Do birds have babies too, and stop
And stare at people as they shop?
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pinched it fromwas inspired by, this time.no subject
I've rethought schedules and time to spend now that Squeaky is walking. Not just because she walks at a different pace, so much, but because there's so much to do that isn't just walking. This morning on the way to Grandma and Grandpa's she picked up some rocks in a bed and chose the BEST ONE to bring to them. I wouldn't have factored that in a year or two ago.
She makes waiting for the bus seem so much faster, though. This morning we threw little red berries into a parking lot, tracked dew back out onto the sidewalk in footprints, and found different letters on a great big sign next to the bus shelter.
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