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Callings (a poem)

There’s a bird in the summer whose song is like loose pocket change. And I wonder how much she’s carrying, and where it will be spent. With the cold and impending wetness of this new season, I think of her often, and wish her well in the warmth she’s found elsewhere. Oceans away.

Now, the dawn owls and coyotes at dusk. Together, mostly. But also alone. They are sonnets unmatched in their bold and righteousness. So proud, the bird. So stealth, the dogs.

It’s easy to lose sleep with it all. Eyes up toward the rafters, between alert and unaware. Hear them now? Hear them close? We merge together. A snap, but more fluid and with grace.

And I’m asleep again. Until she comes back to my mornings, shuffled coins and all.

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