and he sobbed
plucking narcissus
from a constellation
of speckled birds –
a hungry hawk chasing
a great murmuration
for the easiest meal,
peeling across pink
after tiny punched holes.
dandelion seed.
the like.
he realized no one watched him;
no one cried –
no greater birds
in the godless countryside.
it only gets harder to sit
still,
when you’re a slow starling,
when you’re a hawk, starving.
doesn’t it?
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