a wounded crow
pecks at our casement
we open
our shutters and invite
the darkness in
a sheaf
of bamboo strips ready
for weaving
we bend to the task
of shaping each other
the blue lining
of a cormorant's mouth . . .
gap-toothed pier
deserted shack
finger paintings grace
every wall
the vitriol
of (un)social media . . .
spittlebugs
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