Most of the birds are swifts.
Once it grows light they slip into trees.
Rattling their leaves like
cheap party favors.
Colton Notch is true north.
Distant and blue.
Waiting to be made.
The light in between honey on glass and
there are men in the fields.
Cows eating grass.
Grateful.
Violent.
Deep in the center of the land.
They have their own Wounded Knees.
Their own Thermopolis.
These humans know nothing of the Wooden Ramp.
The Hammer between the eyes.
They bend to the ground.
Scraping the earth with their metal.
Seeing the sun in their heads.
The swifts bursting out of their beds.
Buzzing the beasts like Spitfires.
Drawn to the circumference of those who know.
What lies ahead.
First Published by Synchronized Chaos
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