The Dreamer's Pen

In the mist of morning’s light,
Where cedar trees meet ocean’s might,
A song drifts softly through the pines,
From the varied thrush, where silence twines.

It calls across the dampened moss,
Through tangled woods and mountain’s gloss,
A melody so clear, so deep,
A secret that the shadows keep.

Beneath the sky, a gray-blue hue,
Where coastal winds and rain are true,
The thrush’s voice, so pure and wide,
Echoes where the waters hide.

It sings of rain, of fog and spray,
Of wild tides and cliffs that sway,
A song of ancient, rugged lands,
Of misty shores and drifting sands.

In the quiet of the Pacific’s breath,
The varied thrush defies all death,
A voice that rises, soft, and clear,
As mist and forest draw near.