For the Rest

park1

A small thrush rest on the moldy arm of a park bench across from me;

a bench plaqued: “In Loving Memory of Someone Never to be Forgotten.”

The small thrush stretched his wings,

soaking in the leaf-scattered sun from above.

He looked at me and I looked back at him and I asked him to speak to me,

to tell me that it would all be okay;

to which he simply tilted his head for a wondering heartbeat

before sputtering off to enjoy soaring on the warm summer air

before pausing to rest again on some other memorialized wood.

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