recent mumble from Dove Street:

Those doves balanced on a winter branch
burble a dialect I can't follow.  Yet
somehow this is where it starts -
everything (somehow).  My hunch relies

 
on a gray triad - wing, sound, breadcrumb.
Wing (which never shed its shadow).
Flute-sound (grieving, loving, low).
Abject breadcrumb (absent swallow).

                                  
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