Silver cones of white light lined the walkway. I felt you notice the seagulls collect on the fence between us and the sneaky river. They cawed attention to themselves. You stared. What secrets did the seabirds’ white eyes transmit to you? I know every thought is a wish to not have a thought. That is: we’re resigned — watching
the birds eat a chicken wing,
watching them dive under the slow flowing water for live prey -- to the burden of worry, of reducing everything we could love out here to inner play-pretend. The wet wind kissing autumn branches. The swooning hydrangeas just falling all apart. *
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