This poem celebrates the enchanting beauty of birds singing at dawn, weaving their voices into a vibrant symphony. It opens with the first light trembling through a chorus of sparrows, finches, and warblers, their notes threading silver, gold, and sapphire into the air, piercing the quiet with delicate yet bold melodies. The scene deepens as trees hold still to cradle the thrush’s amber song and the blackbird’s velvet tones, creating a rising and falling tide of sound amid misty leaves and dewy grass—an ancient yet fresh music. The poem closes with a reflective wonder at the unseen force tuning this wild choir, each bird’s chirp a prayerful note, blending into a serene, enduring beauty that hints at a divine hand behind the morning’s dawn.

At dawn’s first blush, the air trembles—
a chorus spills from twig and bough,
the sparrow’s trill, a silver needle,
stitching light through shadow’s shroud.
The finch ignites a thread of gold,
warbler weaves a sapphire hum,
each note a wingbeat, soft, yet bold,
a symphony the silence drums.

The trees stand still, their branches cupped,
to catch this fleeting, fragile grace—
a thrush unravels amber threads,
blackbird flings a velvet trace.
It rises, falls, a living tide,
through mist that clings to leaf and stem,
a music older than the sky,
yet new as dew on grass again.

What hand tunes this untamed choir,
this riot of beak and breath and flight?
The morning holds its secret close,
a whisper stitched in shards of light.
Each song a prayer, a fleeting psalm,
sung to the One who strung the dawn—
in every chirp, a holy calm,
a beauty wild, and never gone.