a bag of sticks

the heron flew
low over the water
majestically
motionless
except for a faint
wobbling like a
bundle of long branches
bouncing slightly
in the morning breeze

the story finally
sang to me
not the lone note
warbling on repeat
from the mockingbird
glaring down at me
but with the promise
of seeds carried
in the happy song
of cardinals and jays
flashing in the brush

i feel every cell
vibrating as i sit
on the picnic table
before the heat
is turned to eleven
a peaceful escape
from sleepless dreaming
in the silence at home
grasping at the
smoky images forming
in the wake forming
behind the long blur
of the heron gliding

i wobble in place
a syncopated bag of
branches in the breeze
carrying the first
licks of hellfire
from the oblivious sun
sending every ounce
of love to her before
returning to the darkness
to scribble a tale

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