I caught the bird settling,
out where our orchard grows,
out where old beard sets his seedpuffs so long,
where foragers pluck them to burn out the cold.
I saw a song thrush
down by beached beech nuts,
skipping over root rises,
forced from their digging down deep to expand.
I watched the vacant river,
stroll as a song toward sea,
fingered fresh limestone,
the lichen between leaves.
"It's an epiphyte," I uttered.
"Proof it's a jungle," she shared.
Still I long to swim
where the heron low flies,
to admire, splintered and wholely,
clustered reeds below the necks.
I hunger to follow where the wagtails go,
darting out into space,
and see no people, be no person,
a soul simply sent just to see.
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