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Thursday, September 06, 2012

How the world sounds, when left alone

Twelve or twenty, they’re black,
and wordless they fly with one mind
about the spire. My eyes try

to catch one that doesn’t, but can’t. I hear
a hum. It’s not quite musical, but it is
strangely pretty. Secretly, I know I’m not

meant to hear it. Last night, as I slept
I heard a voice I don’t know, or didn’t
recognize. He wondered, back where I couldn’t

see him, how to break it to us. The birds
and beasts, not like us, he said, he sensed,
know exactly where death takes them.
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