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As if all the birds rushed up in the air,
Hoots, calls, cries.
I never knew such a monster even in child dreams.


It grows:
Glass smashed;
Stores shut;
Windows tight closed;
Dull, far-off murmurs of voices.


The soft, sticky patter of falling drops in the silence.
Everything inundated.
Faces float off in a red dream.
Still the song of the sweet succulent patter.


I think it oozes from my finger tips.
--Or maybe it drips from the brow of Jesus.