The valley wears a misted, silver crown,
Where mountain ridges slope to meet the town.
Between the humming sprawl of cul-de-sacs

And deep-woods silence, where the earth retracks
To wilder roots, I spend my morning hours
Among the foxglove and the elder flowers.

The air is crisp, a draft of cedar-pine,
Where golden light and cooling shadows twine,
And here, upon the porch of weathered stone,

I watch a world that struggles on its own.
A flash of azure, bright as summer sky,
Ignites the hedge and catches at my eye.

An Eastern Bluebird, small and trembling-fair,
Has tumbled from the safety of the air.
A fledgling thing, with feathers tipped in white,

Not yet a master of the upward flight;
He sits upon the mown and manicured lawn,
A scrap of heaven, weary and withdrawn.

His breast is dappled, russet-red and pale,
A tiny heartbeat, frantic, fierce, and frail.
How vast the green must seem beneath his feet,

Where blades of grass like emerald spears entreat.
The suburbs creep with dangers dressed in grace—
I see the neighbor’s cat, with prowling pace,

A shadow sliding through the garden gate,
With amber eyes that calculate and wait.
I clap my hands to drive the ghost away,

But more than cats haunt this transitioned day.
Above the ridge, a Cooper’s Hawk descends,
On thermal winds where every mercy ends.

The raptor circles, sharp and silver-grey,
Mapping the yard for any easy prey.
My breath is held, a knot within my chest,

I wish the bird back in his cedar nest,
Back in the hollow of the old oak tree,
Safe from the talons of the sky’s decree.

But nature’s path is paved with sudden fear,
And I am but a silent witness here,
A girl who loves the wild, yet knows its teeth,

And feels the trembling of the earth beneath.
Then comes the roar, a low and rhythmic growl,
The garden’s beast, a mechanical prowl.

A lawnmower wakes three houses to the east,
A spinning, steel, and unreflecting beast.
It nears the border where the tall weeds grow,

Where wildflowers in the mountain breezes blow.
The fledgling huddles, stunned by noise and light,
Too young to know the wisdom of a flight.

I run toward the edge, my footsteps fast,
To shield the spot before the blades have passed.
I stand a sentry by the clover patch,

Watching the sky, a desperate, lonely watch.
The mower turns, the danger fades to hum,
But still, the little bird remains as numb.

He tries to lift, to beat his velvet wings,
But only tumbles where the ivy clings.
He chirps a thin and solitary note,

A plea that vibrates in his downy throat.
His parents hover in the dogwood tree,
Distressed and helpless, just as much as me.

The father bird is like a sapphire flame,
Crying a song that sounds like hope and blame.
He dives and swoops to show the hidden way,

But gravity is heavy on this day.
The mountain wind begins to rise and moan,
Shaking the petals from the roses blown.

The sun is dipping toward the western peak,
And still the fledgling is too small, too weak.
I want to reach and lift him in my palm,

To offer him a sanctuary’s calm.
But I have learned that hands can sometimes break
The very spirit they would hope to wake.

To be a part of this high, rugged land,
Is knowing when to stay a reaching hand.
I sit upon the grass, a yard apart,

And speak to him from somewhere in my heart.
“The sky is yours,” I whisper to the dew,
“The clouds are waiting for a streak of blue.

The hawk has gone to hunt the farther field,
The cat is barred, the garden is your shield.”
He turns his head, a bead of jet-black eye,

Reflecting mountains and the reaching sky.
A sudden spark of ancient, wild intent
Ignites within his frame, by nature sent.

He stretches out his wings, a sudden span,
Defying every fear and every plan.
With one great leap, a frantic, rhythmic beat,

He leaves the shadow of my sheltering feet.
He does not fall; he does not hit the ground,
But rises up with a triumphant sound.

He clears the fence, he clears the garden wall,
Answering the high and urgent parental call.
Up past the eaves where morning glories twine,

Up to the branches of the towering pine.
He finds his perch, a needle-covered bough,
Safe from the hawk and from the iron plow.

The sun breaks through the purple mountain haze,
Setting the forest and the fields ablaze.
The bluebird sits against the golden light,

The master of his first and glorious flight.
I stand alone within the cooling air,
A witness to a small and answered prayer.

Between the houses and the granite height,
The world is balanced, beautiful, and bright.
The struggle makes the song a sweeter thing,

The strength that hides within a sapphire wing.
I turn toward my home as shadows grow,
While far above, the mountain breezes blow,

And in the dusk, I hear a distant strain:
The bluebird’s joy, born out of fear and pain.