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The Bird.

There is a bird in the airport food court,
A sparrow.
She sails in from the ceiling beams
landing, hopping, under a plastic table.
No one else is looking, but I see her.
She could have been a plastic bag
fluttering to the ground.
Is she a figment of my longing?
I watch her ascend
as if an invisible breeze
Is wafting her up.
I flutter my eyelashes
to imagine her wings.

Moshi Noella writes from Tanzania -.

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