Feathers bless birds with magic of flight, but
roots bind the vegetables to the dirt.
I’ve never met songbirds, only vultures;
even the ravens relished my decay.
Nevertheless, their meaty breasts drowned my
drought with their perspiration. Though gentler,
shrubs simply sap all moisture away. I
have only dust to eat; a brittle leaf.
If only the white dove returned to me.
Perhaps I’d fly past Babel to Paradise.

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