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  • Len Evans


BIRDS AT 5 a.m.

It’s a disgrace

I don’t know who you are.

But at least this morning,

I listen to your every note

of every phrase, the rhythmic silences,

and the uninterrupted love

flowing from your syrinx.


On the Sunday afternoon of their first weekend together,

they position themselves on a neat bench, next

to the vacant bowling green. His six four and her five

foot nothing dominate play, like a tiny bird landing

on the biggest tree in the park. She pecks and hops

from face to arms, from neck to thighs; then slides,

like a bobsleigher, over his six-pack, spinning

and curving in all directions, like the lover’s choreography

from the final scene in An American in Paris. He smiles

his bemused pleasure. She tweets and tweets the notes

only he can hear.

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