Nectar From The Jar

In the air, there is so much
stillness at times,
that I wonder if we will ever be able
to empty ourselves of it.
The way the train whistle blows
in early morning
so that the quiet footsteps
of the deer will hurry,
hurry, across the tracks.
Or the way the hummingbird
will buzz about me at midday,
that I hardly noticed
if he were even there when asked,
because honestly, I didn’t,
while he was stealing
nectar from the jar.
Or the way the raven
sits on the fence post in evenings,
and somehow makes me question
if he holds every promise
that an ink jar might give.
And I suppose that’s all this really is;
this business of writing;
stealing movement from the air. 

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