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The Glory of Birds

The laurel is theirs alone,

not some sun’s

sluggish ascent

up billowing stairs,

or the caustic

shrill of a bell

we might ignore,

because at dawn

they are the heralds,

of our communal, human

morning ,

the reason I awaken;

yes, giving credit to the



its familiar waft

that lifts me from my


which moves in step

with the earth,

its sphere

a carousel,

around a Sol

we deem our soul,

but all of that is

lost inside the News,

which jolts us each

in days of horrid war,

when viruses

are afoot

and Yemeni

children starve

amid our toast,

our eggs and


or maybe it’s just

the neighbour’s

yelping dog ,

announcing his master’s

dozy roll into

his drive, after

the midnight shift

has ended

and he’s fallen asleep

on the horn,

the kids next door

stumbling to see

what the commotion is

all about,

or perhaps

start a dash

down the hall,

to get to the

bathroom first,

finches papered

to its walls

to hide the cracks.

Andreas Gripp

November 2, 2023

Andreas Gripp

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