Monday, April 18, 2016

Feather Pitch

All about the words,
you said, flicking your blonde tress.

I shall wander still
among the finches
as they call for sunflowers,
for seeds, the wild swoop
onto one good perch.

You've held out your long finger.
Perhaps they'll light there.

June 15, 2011 8:01 PM

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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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