Adrift, unpinned, their lost Feathers settle at my feet. Heads cocked and clucking, The chickens follow me, Listening to my prayers, Which are plans for the garden — Fig trees, blueberries, a bridge Across a pond crackling With flame-bright fish. I can’t abide angels, overrated Guardians of no one. I believe in these earthly Murmurers patrolling My yard in plain attire, Keeping their wings to Themselves, flying only In emergencies, gracelessly And close to the ground — Where emergencies occur.
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