Smith, a finch in Wisconsin s woods

Smith, a finch in Wisconsin's woods,
Kuznetsov, a sparrow in Saratov’s field.
Different skies, different moods,
But the same unease they wield.

They’ve never met — and why should they?
Each has their tower, their wind, their sun.
Yet both feel, day after day,
That something strange has just begun.

Smith sees cows and sheep in suits,
Wearing badges, flags, and guns.
He writes reports in quiet loops,
Where horses run, and dogs outrun.

Kuznetsov watches quiet plains,
Where people weave with wool of thought.
He does not judge, he just remains,
With coded truth the silence brought.

And here’s the twist — in both their eyes
There’s no contempt, just quiet care.
Their task: to pierce through all disguise,
Where man is form, not essence rare.

They know how sheep pretend to dream,
How dogs adore their golden chains,
How horses gallop through the scheme,
And cows just chew their silent pains.

They serve no flag, no crown, no creed,
Yet both are beacons, dusk to dawn.
One waits beside a highway’s need,
The other perches — dusk is drawn.