Just a poem I felt appropriate...
WHERE THE BIRDS GO WHEN THEY DIE
The morning light of an April day is more than mere routine.
With Spring-time dew, and life reclaimed. In the crisp, moist air, birds fly and sing.
It was in April, when I took my wings, alone, in the sky of blue,
And learned to soar, and play, and dance. With the clouds, and birds, I flew.
Together, we'd climb a cumulus bank, and slide through a valley of mist.
And fall from a crest for a thousand feet. Then, a new cloud, find, to kiss.
With the green below, and the blue all around, the sky made a welcome home.
And gave me a place to rest, and play. And, clouds, through which, to roam.
And all the birds did gladly share: They seemed to know, like I,
The reverence due The Gift Of Flight: The chance to climb the sky.
And one day I wondered: All those birds...! So many sing, and fly.
As many as I see alive, Where do they go to die?
I find them not, on the grassy slopes, nor at the waters' shore.
Yet, there has to be a place for birds, whose wings can fly, no-more.
Thousands of birds in the trees, and air; but very few are found,
Whose age, or health have stilled their wings, and left them, snared, by solid ground.
But every bird that tastes the wind, and knows the thrill of a stall,
Must face that disappointing fact - that's common to us all.
And my wings, and I, must someday, too, climb-up to our very last flight,
And see the Earth, so far below, and the Sun, above, so bright.
We may not reckon the time at hand, and know what lies ahead,
As we sing with birds, and dance with clouds, and dazzle our spinning head.
But, it will come. And as it does, my heart, I plan to fill
With all the memories the sky can spare, 'til the day my wings lie still.
And, of all the secrets I may have learned, that were hidden in the sky,
I'll expect to find, when my wings lie still, Where the birds go, when they die.
Thank You Again...Betts RN, BSN