not quite a trilogy

And the birds,
in the red,
they are calling,
in midst of the fractured moon.

And what do you tell the others
when the mother's in the forest,
but she's glazed and glides (away to the glade)?

Catch a glimpse of the water
as she sways and slides,
soars into an angry swirl
of adventure, of human nature,
that has disrupted nature's calling.

And we're falling;
she's frightened you.
And after you're so frightened
you'll call on the father (on the father).

When we leave our nests astray
whispers sweep over the fire,
leaves and branches decay.

And the fires are fine --
we'll take them --
as long as they don't take us,
cast away our identity,
or cast away our destiny.