i.
my word is a heron trying to swallow its fish
but the bare bones spike against the bitter bills.
across the hill over the black lake
drowns the words that i cannot say.

ii.
so i find solace in echoes of the sky
but do not seek the lineage call
for the clouds swallow softly
when they bellow into new form.

iii.
yet, the wilting white soil avows
crumbling bitterness into the lake
but the vision is still crystalline
of things courage cannot say.

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