The first bird

Some stirring called the bird,

a rustling of pollution, steady

nighttime harbinger of a rising

breeze I do not hear.


Below were inland

rivers of waste dripping

underfoot, charred slender

sticks walking through

the dark


that shook the bird

to shudder


This first sound of morning



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then there was grace

our detritus is discarded in heaped

bundles on unborn verges of lawn


strewn across an aged and tender land

treeless and reddening in the desert sand.


waves build banks across vast stretches

of seething nothingness filled with waste


time in the sun numbs, we have dumped

our thoughtlessness in barren, arid land.


yet the desert adjusts its swollen face

sores, heaving and rolling over landfill


to cover man-made mounds and little hills

with gentle, infinitely returning specks of grace.



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