Bird Day

We count the wing beat, thrum, and whistle as our hours, prayers to a pinioned god. I am flush with quail; they scatter from the brachyglottis and I kneel to make myself small. Still, they fold themselves in among blackberry canes. Across town, an osprey kites the sky above Jeffrey’s head, strung and spun in his regard. Clean and watchful.

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~ by anneovers on July 22, 2011.

 
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