Richard Randolph

July 3, 1955--Oregon
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Birds, I've noticed, don't cry,
but accept their fate,
whatever it is,
without complaint.
I've seen sparrows
half frozen by the snow
calmly perched upon a branch
with no fear of death.
And sometimes they even sing,
sometimes sweetly,
sometimes with sorrow,
but never with self pity.
Rather, they seem to be saying,
I am here, I exist,
and that is enough.
And if the weather warms,
and they are still alive,
they sometimes fly up
into a vast expanse of blue,
viewing the world as angels might.
It's wondrous,
almost a miracle,
but given their indomitable spirits,
how could it be otherwise?
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