a stork's beak tracing in air,
awaiting the feeling of fins underwater,
as still a gaze on the ground before prayer?
Or sighting and limning a lightness with ink,
and draping the blankness about as a veil,
eyes shining with secrets revealed,
and voice cradling verses inhaled?
How often the first voice is silent,
and in silence we raise up our own.
Is anyone speaking? Or do we just hear
what is and is all and alone?
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