Look like hummingbirds nesting
And then a sharp squawk
A sound bigger than a bird lands
On the bright morning air
But no bird is visible
And nothing has moved from the fictitious
To the real leaves nothing stirs
The yard remains pictorial serene
While the sound of it circles round
The possibilities of its source
The intelligence of its intent
Maybe the sound spoke itself
That nothing but itself was meant
There was no bird or tree
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