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by June Blumenson


lights on my windowsill,

calm, definitive.


I think its eyes are on me

nesting under the eiderdown,

unblinking into the dawn’s

lifting darkness. But it’s only

pecking away at its reflection

on the rain-spotted glass.


Yesterday, someone I knew died.

We were like feathers brushing

against each other’s cheek.


I pull the comforter closer

to my body. The sparrow

beats its wings––

whistles its two-second song.