April 4 by David HillFour hop from branch to branch
bobbing breasts of swollen pumpkin.
The prey are watchful,
but I have no taste for robin.
(perhaps in desperate times?)
I wonder, have we met in these woods before?
then think, well no, it can not be.
Change is the constant here,
tiny increments;
a bit more wisdom,
or a bit less.
Cells fall away.
I look again,
and there are three.
04/06/2009 Author's Note: Birdman of Bethabra
Posted on 04/07/2009 Copyright © 2023 David Hill
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