In my courtyard, a heap of stuff blown from many directions- wet socks, branch about to bloom, TV antenna bent-over window screen... I could set up shop, sell broken merchandise to the broken, sell wails and sobs to the grieving.
Come by and buy this day with trees uprooted and boughs fallen, with flooded kitchens honking geese and two ravens solemn as undertakers in black suits strutting what might be a roof.
My broom at the ready, I begin to sweep when the leaves let out a cry, and I leap back in terror at the voice of the inanimate...
...three birds, each no bigger than my thumb, like me in shock or not yet fully awake, hold mum-still whirl up a sudden, wings brushing my face.
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