Bird-watchers


One deaf night, one young night,
one beautiful night I looked up towards my father,
and he had finger painted
an odd arrangement of colors on his doorway,
Blurry and distant,
I saw the very figure of a nameless bird hovering overhead,
It flew nearer,
and it became recognized as nothing more than an airplane,
A metal craftsmanship of arrogant, meaty, human, hands.
From that metal bird came a tiny spark,
it wavered downward threateningly,
Huddle on the ground from sheer instinct of my shrill voice
we sank to the humbling position of terrified children
I will forever correlate the sound of its rumble
with the wake of reality,
Scattered,
we tripped over our own feet foolishly pretending a place,
A place.
Could be our savior,
we sought and hid and wandered about,
Hoodwinked by shadow and tormented by its rumble
We never left the sky that beautiful night,
Sweating over each blink we shook.

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