Routine becomes them as the sun creeps in
Awake and yearning for the day.
With warmth illuminating the feathers on their skin,
Awaiting the strong notes and squeals in a neigh.
Little feet curl like weeds in the earth,
As the family forms a line.
With breasts prepared to sing a birth
Of a lovely chirping rhyme.
Little bird prancing about
Youth should be no hurry.
For, to soar those sheep coats in the sky
Will be a feat when these wings will fly.
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