.bird at the window.

it is still. there is a bird at the window.
on making tea I saw one down at the pot of nuts. posing.
i am deleting capital letters

the amish man forgot then that the book was yours
not his to burn, with all the implications the burning

the awful memories

i hear they turn their backs

i have had backs turn this way
as painful as any knife stab
and the pain continues
more than the physical

i have looked at your area; like the look of it
the idea of it
as in a novel for i will never experience it.

that is for you, yet i love the stories
you bring

i was thrown sideways completely here yesterday
when warrior spoke of a friend and said

‘if she is dead’

seems it was a typo. i do not know her story
i only know i miss her terribly and in that it has
changed things

today, moving forward, i hope to travel to bala
to work
to savour the journeys back and forth
the travellers, the conversations

to work well in my way
to enjoy this day

things are real good this end
i hope the same for you

there is no wind
moving the trees