Instead of hush,
I wander looking
for the door.
Flocks of pigeons circle
making scythed flights
returning to my
siloed soul,
there to fuss and coo.
The door they use,
not fit for earthbound searching
requires me to fly up too.
Pigeons of my soul’s accounting,
with eyes of gold, fierce piercing
through the hush,
I must listen.
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