Three


A chorus of three.
Two perform, trailing my ear’s range. One interjects ahead.
Isn’t it always so?
The two: chests puffed, voices strained.
In a freaking fuss. Flustered.
Over what?
The timer tolls.
The third braids four faint, staccato sighs—
and the two resume their dissonant squawks.
Sustained succession,
until
the steady sob of the lone feathered friend
swells into weeps and wails—
piercing, biting, blaring.
Knife-like.
The pair endures, unstirred.
Restless and riled and racing: the unitary cry,
until
The two surrender.
And the one, resumes
its predictable rhythm, its steady song of
sole.

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