in the depths of
the bush sings
winds which
carry tiny finches
through who in silence
dive and speak
the cities are burning
dry earth, red sun
and another bird
with frantic flight
trapped by it's
own constant sight.
Note: It's been hard not to think about the bushfires happening in Australia. I got the imagery for this poem as I was driving back from our local swimming hole, past some bush that had burnt and past others that hadn't.
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