poetry by j matthew waters

going in for the kill

there were only three of us
but we managed to make a sound
unlike any other birdsong

we hung out in alder trees
creek & trail fifty feet below
passing along the binoculars
spying on pretend prey

diving headlong & swooping
living & dying in a precise moment
as if in an endless dream

april two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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