I am finding it harder to write.

The words come, then take flight;

Scared away, as a covey of quail…

In soft fluttering, they take sail,

And settle again, just out of reach…

Always, just out of reach……

My purpose lay under their folded wings

I know, for as they fly, I hear it sing

To me with the thumping of my heart…

But their flight keeps us far apart…

And each step moves them to a more distant place…

Always, a more distant place……

My breath is short; my need unsatisfied,

Until I see the place they finally hide;

Amid the thorns of my anxiety,

In the bramble bush of my forced necessity…

Settling into calmness, I approach with quiet resolve;

Cautiously now, I write, with quiet resolve.

“Shhh…” I tell my soul, “be still”

And I move smoothly until

Between the prickly points of greed

I reach to capture in my need

The words that make this job well done;

“Bless you son, for a job well done.”