Swaying for grip in the gusty wind
The magpie eyes me suspiciously,
What business have I in his world?
I throw him the evil eye before closing the door
Turning over the soil,
Work is work is pleasure too.
The robin waiting on impatient.
In a wildly unstructured dream:
A flock of crows rise congenially together
Twisting and rendering the air black with their cawing-
Searching for a name amid the weeds of the field.
Yet barely more than a speck,
Dwarfed by billowed clouds towers,
The kite holding station.
From somewhere amidst night’s secret flow
The call of the owl –
Tiny feet frozen earthbound.
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