I recently attended a party held outdoors in farming country. Near the road was an old piece of farm machinery, slowly rusting.
I wrote this poem for what is past and unchangeable:
Waiting long:
For men to bind me to their task.
For sun and wind and dirt and grass.
For purposed motion past that tree.
For harvests that are not for me.
As the sun set I was struck with the awareness that each of us has had times of achievements — of getting things done, of doing well — but feel now that time is passing without the arrival of new successes.
Looking at this rusting machine, I realized that I too have rusty parts — signs of wear, not quite as fit, and holding on to old ideas of how things should be done and said.
But looking at this rusting machine, I realized that I am changeable — that my rust is reversable, that I can be renewed.
There are truths of purpose and truths of things worth doing. They all involve people, helping each other to move forward, even if moving forward means to sit and share a smile.
We are not a rusty machine or a tree stuck in the ground. Shake off the rust. Shake off the dust.
Try hard. Be kind. Make more of today, together.
Each of us have birds native to their area of the world. The two birds that I love the most are the 
