The brisk morning air turned to the bright light of midday and then to the dusky hues of twilight

The once roaring waters steadied, slowed, and trickled to a stop

But they knew the words would be back by tomorrow at first light

And they would have paper ready to capture them as they dropped

They eased themselves up, humming a cheerful melody of sweet tones

Before making their way out of this pocket of the natural world

They skipped (yes, skipped-) down their often frequented path of stones,

Before coming to a startled stop at the sight of a trembling bird, in a ball curled

They bent down, concerned eyes glancing over it,

Noting the harm done to the poor sparrow

Its wing was bent in an awkward angle- the bone must've been split

And, embedded in its feathers, they found the remains of a poorly shot arrow

Some young fool must have harmed this great creature with a faulty blow

They scoffed in indignation, but soon found composure

After all, there was no time for anger when the bird looked as if it'd been dunked into snow

headfirst, the poor thing trembling from head to toe, rustling crooked feathers

Gently, carefully, ever so steady, they scooped it up and nestled it between their jacket layers

Then, at as brisk a pace they could manage without jostling the bird,

They set off, murmuring words of prayer

The words rushed over each other as the bird feebly stirred

Hang in there, they whispered as they rushed the creature away,

Away to a place of safety and security,

To a place of hope, hope for new days,

And prayers that the bird would find its way back to nature and its purity