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Mya G.


with a vast swoop, your forked tails
            underdive, no pause in the flock—

a begging call, then the simple twitter,
            wingfeathers swept back against wind.

One thousand trips for mud, my dear.
            Now the overpass holds the nest; soft bowl

shaped of twigs & necessity, and I can’t trace
            patterns followed or names carried

before mine—wide-spread barn yell
            traveling home—on the far side of the lee.

Blue-black upper, off-white under,
            iridescent wings, and a worm—please swallow.

 

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