tracking birds in the new snow,
i think about what i should be reading.
each angled starburst was formed
by tiny toenails. hopping. perfect.
i should be reading more fiction
and more of the old philosophers,
the ones who didn’t talk so much
about truth and whether it exists.
but back to the birds: the best
i’ve ever gotten was fifty-one
pairs of prints in a row, two years ago.
i was thinking of books then, too,
the same desire to better myself
sparked by light claw-trenches,
two-by-two. after the first twenty,
i began to think that perhaps they
would never end, pointing south
forever until the snow turned to mud
somewhere around georgia. then:
suddenly nothing. one never really
finds birds this way. maybe when i
have read enough i too will tuck up
my legs and move on to the next stop.


4 thoughts on “tracks

  1. “Little bird, little bird, little bird, how are you feeling?
    Like help in quarantine
    Pearly white touch down smile
    Absent creases round the eyes
    Tell tale, hard sell, we smell rats in the kitchen
    tell tale, hard sell, we small rats in the kitchennnn”

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