Sparrows tickle the pond for a lark

I am standing to undo the morph of existence

into a streamlining effort to design an aerospace pattern

cows litter the field as the wind howls empty space into the cockpit

learning the sign language is the course

to follow the birds into the cages tucked with blackness

slowly the river chugs the water as the parabola rose and fell

I swoop the umbrella and the sparrows return

There is enigma about the place and I burn the last shreds of paper

her pic rousing to flames the patterns on the paper rising with the wind

to etch out existence that is silent and forlorn.


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