My drafts hold nothing of interest, some nonsense I scribbled
in a vain attempt to infer Sara from the existence of stars,
some ambiguous mumbo (tiny, not jumbo) plus
a line about life in the canopy over
fields at the apex of gloaming.

Nothing of value to work with here
so I turn to birdsong to quell
my ache for expression.

© Chagall ∞

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