THE WEAVER FINCH

Poor dusty little weaver finch,
I see you all year long,
You are so very common,
A note, your only song.

You have no claim as native,
You were not called, but sent.
You came only for a visit,
And became an immigrant.

Your ragged nest hangs from my eaves,
Your bread is pauper’s fare,
Your chicks fall helpless to the ground,
And no one seems to care.

I wonder if God has made you,
To show the proud elite?
That His love and care be boundless,
The ground level at His feet.

THE WEAVER FINCH
© 1992, 2018 by Michael Leonard Jewell

To Mary and Patty Wolf–fellow birders of my youth.