...the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life...

Tuesday, July 14, 2015


Third scrub rabbit this walk. Vulture above that pond
Crosses before and over me gliding by the one
On my right, ignoring me, looking for meat
To fill the truck. There's mullet in clear water,
Shovelnose shark, sharing it with two herons,
Whose squawks of dispute cut through the audio
Earbuds feed me. Scrub birds, small wrens?
Finches? Gnatcatchers?—I know few birds—
Fly and flit and yip, unbound by the path that takes me
Onward, like a rider on a dark ride looking 
At the mechanical array, with a thrill he paid for,
Screened from nearby humans, forgetting they’re there,
Pretending to, maybe not. Each image and perspective 
Is made for him. What powers the rattle in the bush?

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