the committee pulled out its feathers, a fence of marching shadows like the jagged teeth of a comb. the comb circles for gray hairs to smooth back, vultures, the pot calling the kettle. the strands start from their chests, they must be old souls. mourning and laughing, they say heat escapes through the head, so we must be on a scalp the way the air is buzzing.
1art by Pragna Gaddamedi (@prgs.jpeg)
Poetry Tip of the Day!
This came out of one of my spookiest experiences living in Austin, TX, and luckily, I had someone with me to validate the eeriness of how everything went down. What we thought was a small family of ducks was actually a very large wake of vultures. The heat was rippling across the pavement, and of course just as we acknowledged them to each other in the car, every single one of them craned their heads in our direction. That’s a poem if I’ve ever seen one.
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ornithologic visionary