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Thursday, September 1, 2022

There

The nuthatches and chickadees

Are here, but are never there.

No twig, no arm of a lawn chair,

(Nothing their little claws seize)

Remains a perch for long

In each bird’s pursuit of song.

In movement they find flying.

They cannot be still for trying.

They pause only for sustenance —

The suspension of cadence

Taking air from the vibrating beak.

That is a bird’s life — to seek.