between the woods and broken
wall I sit,
atop the rainwashed stump and
mossy earth.
nothing contemplated but the sun and
yellowed leaves,
windows of existentialism floating
through my eyes like wind.

look to that green canopy;
a lovely gold finch sings at dawn,
with all its tiny feathers ruffled
by a midnight owl
pursuing food and death and
filtered moonlight.
seven simple sit atop a gleaming
no one can hear their songs but I,
and nothing but the gentle babble
of this tumbling brook
can carry their tunes away.

this lonely road I walk talks of
death, of half-life
of the softest stolen whisperings
of those dawny sparrows
in the hazy heat of noon.
and then in the ochre fall of dusk,
when all but I are sleeping,
a wandering for darts deliberately
through the brackery brush of

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