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June 17, 2024


By Linnet Phoenix


Here, there are no sparrows.
The air is pine filtered,
a sunshine crisp, unadorned
by greying heat haze.
The forest stands in orderly
fashion, trees looking down
their needled noses.
The roads are built smooth
with long Volvo straights.
They clean their road signs.
At night they are blinding.
Random lumps of granite
make no apologies,
a covering of moss
for modesty sake.
This murder of magpies
keeps family close.
This house is theirs.
I see great tits gathering.
Woodpeckers dip and knock.
Rumpled evidence left
of nocturnal foraging
by local wild boars.
I feel an autumn cooling,
leaf clearing for snow.
It's nearly time to leave,
to fly where sparrows go.

Article © Linnet Phoenix. All rights reserved.
Published on 2021-09-13
Image(s) are public domain.
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