Malaika King Albrecht

 

 

 

 

Truth May Not be Solid                             

 


Somewhere above me

a wood thrush begins his low song.    

 

Each short phrase rises quickly 

to a final trill that troubles the air.   

 

More akin to liquid than solid    

even what we say may not be heard.   

 

So much is utterly invisible.   

The bird. The song. The air. 

 

 

 

 

 

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