I witnessed poetry
unfolding
this morning
in the gray sky
above my backyard.

This backyard that is
every suburban
plot of cut grass
and swing set
nestled between
busy streets.

I wish you could have seen it too

because words will
never convey
the catch-your-breath magic of
one hundred herons
in swirling dance:

black-tipped wings
bending in unison
to form one v
and then another v
in pure, synchronized
grace.

 

 

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2 thoughts on “Poetry Unfolding

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