The Chatter That I Hear
The sort of things you think worth saying are
not things that strike my fancy. I have heard
the same news better put, in fifty-four
years on this planet, and I now prefer
tranquility. The chatter that I hear
around town, in the office, in the home,
is mostly noise. The birds are flying east
this morning, driven by a need I don’t
pretend to fathom, to be over there
instead of here. They don’t speak. But across
the arc of time, they plot a course anew.
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