Home of the Wanderer

I can hear the birds chirping, the wind howling, and the breeze blowing.
Feel the soft moss on a tree, while watching little birds fly free. 
Sleeping high, high above my head.
Living where wild plants grow, hiding secrets we don’t know. 
Sometimes I refuse to believe that this  home
To a creature well known, 
With very few left.
But now the place is gone,
Leaving the creature well known, without a home.
Oh the poor old plains-wanderer.