Friday, January 30, 2015

at work

so high, so far up,
almost to the very end
of the bald tree.
just below the stratus clouds.
this woodpecker machine guns
his pointed beak.
pounding a hole
for shelter or food,
who's to know.
you stand and watch, he
looks down. quiet
for a minute, waiting
for you to move on.
so you do.

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