Echoes of a Silent Cry

In the twisted hollow
The blue-jay softly sings,
Uttering it's melody
A sick soliloquy.

In-between each blade of grass
It echoes and resounds,
The space between the rustling leaves,
And their fateful fall towards ground.

If you listen closely, you can hear it,
In the creaking of the wood,
Or the cracking of a a branch,
Like the stomping of a hoof.

Although the blue-jay flew away,
I still hear his song today,
I sit under a shaded tree,
And watched the slow, convicted leaves.