Ron Dragano


Cleaning Up The Garbage

In summer I see them roosting high in the old pines,
Hear them calling, black wings lifting them to flight,
Not so in winter. Where have they gone?
Into the deep woods, I think
melding into the dark light, they go their own ways
If there are such ways
For hunger has its own road, is the grand promenade
Bringing them back
Thursdays the trash barrels and plastic bags

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