Untitled

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Through the window glass
I see
a bird flying high.
She twists and turns on a warm spring breeze.
Below her is a field of clover,
every purple flower
staring up at me.
And I watch,
silently.

The bird flies by the windowglass
and sees
a face staring out,
motionless
despite the warm spring breeze.
She circles once
and then again
and lands,
asking everyshing flower,
why?
Why does the face watch through the window
and never ride the warm spring breeze
into a field of purple clover?

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