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Daniel Miles



In the shadows of
the heavy wisteria
lay the yellow
skeleton of a sparrow,
slightly sunken into
the soft under soil;
one wing pointing

Two children crouch
beside its tattered remains,
cold and listless in the shimmer
of summer dust, blurring and
clarifying their vision
with the exhale of
sugar scented breaths.

Knees at their chests,
they gaze at the sparrow in
its perfect preservation.

And as the sun sinks
into the flickering earth,
its wide face a golden
yoke on a stretch of pale blue,
these two children,
with the fantasies of horror
alight in their eyes,
dig little holes around the
sparrow like midnight
grave robbers and
whisper to each other
as flints scrape bones, its
shape an endless discovery
in the weep of birdsong..


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