Far at the noon sky, I captured a gleam, The whiteness behind it appeared to be dim. The beak so red as if a carrot was stolen By the passing clouds who held their heavy rain. The drumsticks so yellow, piercing the sun, Carrying a message for only those who have done Their part to the vastness at the end of the day, And to the sick breath over the forsaken bay. The white wings are blazing over the horizon, Turning the south wind around its head, a cohesion Of the force of nature around them, beaming with The sight of the boy, flying his kite—the number fifth. Landing near the river, it touches the grasses, A snail near the sand feels the tension that passes. The peekaboo—a halo around the Angel of the Lord, Sends a wave throughout the earth as a harp’s chord. Beauty in the nature hopes to survive all the odds, Even the merest creature passing by, sees it and nods. In respect I adore the loveliest who rests above all, Thus, I call it the White Bird, who comforts my soul.