Tuesday, February 23, 2016

at last I can bid the mourning doves good-bye

as they coo on the fire escape

the screechy bird song at dawn

smooths into a white noise of cacophony

as the sun rises and the dreadful dreams of night

fade back into the unknowable subconsciousness

that lurks beneath every springtime creep

as fears dissolve and joy like birdsong sends its first call

Content (c) 2008-2016 Philip Milito.

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