The birds have decided not to sing
nor fly among the trees this morning.
The break of day has come and gone.
The hillsides a red hue. I long
for some sign though I don’t know
what I am longing for. Not spring, no;
it is here. Maybe what is inside spring,
that shoulder shudder revealing
what was thought to be hidden, the secret
within and within and within kept
unless dug up, hands in the ground
fingers reaching, reaching around.
The heart in every fingertip,
the right words finding my lips.
-Byron Hoot
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