August 6th, 2019

wing and a prayer


it is thundering it's been thundering i was standing by a window i was watching out the window as the thunder builds into itself rumbling, grumbling, but it'll probably pass us it usually passes us, as often as not a storm passes us by. a rumble crested, the wind rose and as though tipped into spilling at nature's disruption a dozen three dozen a hundred maybe blackbirds flooded out from the big tree across the street, clumsy and scuttling at first, like black salt or startled blackbirds scattering in different directions then all at once clutched up in a gather, turned, mysteriously choreographed into accord, into a single brushstroke. i watched, not sure how to articulate the way this tiny moment seized my perception. i stood there, inarticulate, as the birds disappeared from view.
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