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At early dawn I spot him high; With powerful wings he's much too shy To come right in and join the spread-- He banks and calls and circles instead. His instincts tell him they're his kind; Still, doubts race through his fickle mind. He listens quick . . . the feeding call Leads him to risk . . . abandon all! He turns into a strong north wind. A final call to them he'll send. His wings are cupped and locked up tight, Master of air--such an awesome sight! He slices through the powerful wind. What's his destiny; what's his end? A pintail drake without a mate, Thinks, not one thought, of his own fate! He has been flying most all day Just needs a restful place to stay. To feed his body, long deplete, This place provides all he can eat. His Maker, in complete control, Meets the needs of this weary soul. How can he stay aloft so long? Those tiny muscles beat so strong! Muted colors on feathers trim, The brisk, cold wind molds them to him. Making him sleek and dry and warm. Protects him safely through any storm. A caring God made him that way, To each of us He wants to say, "If My care for these birds is true Will I not care, much more, for you?" BACK |
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