Sunday, September 11, 2011


tanagers whistle toward the flock
criss-cross mountain range
and follow marsh.
precise are the skies
abundant the earth
refuge is quiet and waiting.
to harness power is shortsighted
the grids are laid out.
when they open to a field
the sky is
wrought with red
most rise silent.
there is an order of return
when the time comes
wings break way
and the path is known.

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