The crook in the branch,
Just perfect for her size,
She sits back,
Enjoying the sun,
Hearing her brothers shout,
She is too high up,
She can not be reached,
Not by sticks,
Not by stones,
Only by the sun and breeze,
She feels so calm,
So perfectly calm,
That she wonders,
How can people,
With machines and factories,
Hear the lovely sounds of the breeze,
Of the wind,
And the birds,
Put together to make a song,
A song of music.