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A BIRD IN THE HAND
For some reason
I turn down going out that night,
choosing instead to pick blackberries
in the fencerow.
Leaves rustle in the thicket
and berries vibrate.
A sparrow flutters,
pierced by a thorn.
His twig of a leg crusts brown
from dried blood, the limp foot
draws closed like a claw.
I support him in my palm,
remove the offending brier.
He flies free.
Across the field,
a multitude
of lilies.
Barb McMakin
Crestwood, Kentucky |