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my son tells me the stick is a bird my son tells me this stick has wings then lets it take flight he didn’t drink peyote or take a trip to the Mexican sands can't read Castaneda or smoke his own destiny he just knew feathers when they were in his hands
my son tells me this stick is a bird my son smiles and sets this bird free it takes flight we watch it soar to the ground then sweep into the afternoon it is spring and all the mother's hands are full flocks of birds lie in wait beneath the swings
my head is clear and we are singing
5:17 AM
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