On the whim (of wind)

The puddle is disturbed, rippling

and I don’t want to wait to see what’s left

when the reflection stops shimmering

Somewhere in a place I can’t see

overhead, a dark bird squawks

– maybe a warning, or a mocking cry

There’s something threatening to spill out

so I close my mouth and rub my eyes

in vain, hoping worry will fade like wind

We’ve been here before

yet the volume remains unexpected

and the view indiscernible


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