I wonder about the birds
who fly across
as I’m driving, swerve
underneath, appearing
and disappearing like shamans
in the twinkling of eyes --
unprovable and undeniable.
What worries me is how many
moments I’ve had like that
beyond everything except
the certainty that lingering image
of someone entering and not
re-appearing, that echo waiting
for a word that never comes
like those birds who fly
in front of me I see on one
but not the other side.
-Byron Hoot
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