a rustling arc of red

We are birds in the canopy.
We hear each other sing,
we squabble, we pine
for each other, and
fly from place to place.

Carouse the high room of love,
work the day for worms.
Regular as dirt.
We finish under the canopy,
unnamed, indistinguishable
from brown stems and dead branches.
And gone, all gone.

Our mewling trills begin in crowns,
our squeaks end underfoot.
High-flyers above are as mud-draggers below:
stupid singers, grunting movers;
predictable as buds.

Some soar in, under the dark canopy,
and describe a rustling arc of red or blue.
But gone, all gone.

makeshift
compressidue
 

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Thursday, July 27, 2017

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fine art prints
writing by Greg Correll