by tulskaya square

April 3, 2015 § Leave a comment

In a row of bare bushes sparrows puff taupe grey feathers against a gusting wind, unfalling as small clawed feet grip perfectly twigs that show no sign of spring. Strands of hair whip against my cheeks, red and smooth and cold, and this breath from Siberia presses into my ears, presses until they ache from trying not to hear the song of a shaman, not to hear the chirp of small messengers whose avian bones as fine as splinters will cast feathered constellations into the dirty grey morning like runes when at last the wind subsides.



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