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April 4

by David Hill

Four 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.


Author's Note: Birdman of Bethabra

Posted on 04/07/2009
Copyright © 2024 David Hill

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