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The Bird

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You have only seen the bird twice.
The first time, you smiled at it,
you could see the musical notes float from its beak,
chestnut highlights lingering in its feathers,
the kind of color you see as fall arises.
It s body could rest in your palm,
darling enough to want to take home.

Now, you glower at it.
You can see the dissonance notes crash from its beak.
Brown smudging it’s feathers,
the kind of color you see as the snow melts.
Its skeleton can fit in your palm,
fragile enough to powder in your grasp.

You aren’t sure how to go about forcing it to leave.
All you know is that you have a stone in your hand,
and are winding up for a throw.
Your fingers must have slipped open,
because the rock is now leaping out your window.

The branch becomes vacant.
Relief fills you to the rim
and suddenly pours out:
as a new sparrow
lands on the twig.



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