by Annmarie Lockhart
Loud as if they were in
the room with me, the birds
tell out the equinox.
Robins, jays, sparrows
(I know them better as Fig,
Martin, Jacqueline), sing
treble half-step rounds
laissez les bon temps roulez.
The sun turns and I watch,
hoping its reflection doesn't
lure the birds smack into
the dining room window.
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