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"Herringbone and Night Fire"


In the tree in the yard is a bird's nest.
Remnats of paper, grass, tangled bloodroots;
a courtship; an elaborate masterpiece
of brutal entanglement. For some species,
a shallow depression made in sand.
Years ago when nothing much was at stake
we held hands in the park. The solid un-
swerving way the world newly divided
opened a field of possibility.
The birds are skittish or in harmony.
They draw sustenance from close comfort.
One cannot exist without the other.
I hear him get up, the sound of heavy footsteps.
Birds call. A cry deeper than hurt or love.

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