pecking around at the end of the yard
wobbly
paying attention to the hillside drop-off
lost from a half-dozen others
a roost of one
just might be
my mother incarnate
a true
rosie-the-riveter
worker-like
scarfing up loose food
providing for the community
if she ever reconnects
stepping through resurrected
green buds
new grass
a trail of her own
running away
if i approach--- e b bortz
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