The Nesting of Wild Things

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Birdsong begins in darkness,
humming like faulty wiring,
collecting trills placed
in bone and wind.

I felt shadows move in stillness
bowing to my fetal shape,
setting off the nightingale and
the cerulean warbler

to rest branches in my open palm,
flint to strike against the
steel moon and ignite a
flight of condors.

Running with fever down
beaches of gulls into hawk-spun
mountains, I spilled into
the soft-plumage of day

clearing the way for the
wild things at the gate,
feathers soaked in bonfire blue,
a launch of flight

leaving me covered in the
the ashes of the phoenix,
quelling the call of the nest
to put me on my journey.

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