“A bird flew out of my mouth”, my wife said,
when I busped (half burp/half sigh),
an exaltation of larks,
a pause, stop, dash;
a murder of crows,
(probably chihuahan raven,
the way my dog barked at me
and questioned mark her body,
maybe reading herself
in the onomatopoeia
of unknown syllables);
a dole of mourning doves,
commas ascending the sky,
until the chipmunk,
a few short of a scurry
(maybe, maybe not,
I could not see what
was inside or beneath its burrow.)
never hearing me utter a sound,
much less recite a nature poem,
popped its head above
a sentence of Tennessee clay,
its body stiff as an exclamation mark,
wondering why the flight
of language had stopped.
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