The birds, yes, lovely songs
for long walks along deserted streets
in Spring when they populate trees
and nestled into evergreens to 
build summer homes. Even the 
cat’s ears pick up and her tail fluffs
to the droning chirp that is constant.

But on this walk, wanton along a road
without sidewalk, gray Nissans and 
Ford pick-up trucks unaware that 
feet hug the line that is painted to
indicate a shoulder, not much really,
that keeps me in line on the route.

The birds, yes the birds, sing, but
I cannot see them, so I look for
something else to savor.
Staring down at my feet so that 
I don’t trip on bubbles of ashphalt,
the road is littered with shards 
of metal and glass carelessly thrown
from the cars that move too fast along.

Shards of glass I have seen before,
not by accident or torn from steel,
in portrait depicting a story from a mind
not quite like the others on the block
hung in a museum of others who
envisioned the shards of their mind
and unusual materials to create
something whole, purposed.

Oh the birds, yes, I hear them,
but I will look for guidance in the litter,
find patterns in pieces of broken
glass and strips of torn rims and plates
to make sense of the shards of thought 
that scatter mosaicly in my thoughts
as the season changes from frost to song.

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