Like children, we made hollow birds
from newsprint and
thin paste (slimy,
smelling of coatrooms,
The cellar doors
open, the night
poured down the cellar stairs.
I drove us northward into pinewoods
(morning, the colour of newspapers
carried in burlap, delivered in a steady rain).
We could see our breathing,
we could hear our shallow steps,
the wind, the water
dripping from our hair. We
no shadows. Later,
we placed hard, hollow birds
together by the edge of the lake.
I took a picture of you
into a pile of leaves, I took
a picture of the motionless birds.
John D Porter
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