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The Folly of Hope

A morning as still as death

covered in heavy white shroud

lackluster hum of dying crickets

occasional word from the neighbor’s

chickens broken finally by the

persistent song of one fully living

cardinal telling his real story

to whomever will listen hoping

for whatever it is cardinals hope for

if hope is what they do contrary to

what I am told with a shake of the

head, oh no, birds do not have a

thing in them called Hope.

Only humans pursue such folly.

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