The Rogue Nun
digs its talons into bedrock
and begins to ascend.
Barely bearing up under
its own weight, bruised
it claws to a break in the cliff face.
A moment to rest--
to let its wings dry in the sun.
April 03, 2015
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Winter and the cold snow bring the dark-eyed juncos. My heart, full, watches.
National Poetry Month - April 25, 2020
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