The Birdwatcher
Consumed in the sunshine
of a field full of loss,
riding the gusts of memory,
I call to my sorrows,
elusive warblers
who reply
from the tall grass,
occasional flash of gold,
cedar waxwings
calling from deep
in the green glen.
They're the ones I want to see.
I scorn the more obvious
pigeons and starlings
who scavenge
at my feet.
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