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Why we write (think like those WW2 films)
Another morning unstoppable has broken irreparable
your tilted sun filters through a Juned backroad forest.
Waking to birdsong, a battalion of two legged winged things
stretch across the meadow, outside these sleepless windows.
What is better being, hear, silent in the company of crows?
Or starlings, purring, tossed underhanded like wobble pears.
Flocks walk formation into foggy dew against grain of grass
in worried stick lines, pass like marched men clearing mines.
Do they search for missing words to preach like Saint Francis too?
Should we abandon prayer to sleep, for now, what can poetry do?
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