The poet may write of little things,
But how grand they become when they spread their wings,
Taking to the sky on their maiden flight,
Like quivering beams, they cast out the night
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dear friends are/is NOT a little thing! ok, maybe not as big as two gallons of ice cream, WITH cake. and, to a robin, whose nest may be on the branch, with eggs and/or babies and/or a mate, the branch is not a little thing, even if it is not a big branch. but i still like ya. :) bri
oops! been here, done this. ;) bri