The Back Fence, 4 PM

The shadow of the feeder dangles slant
from today’s gold
dwindling scaffold.

Winged jots record, on radiant
boards, birds fanning and declining
to the feeder.

Smoke suspended in dense shining,
text like oblong litter;
and the reader

thinks leaves walk like tittles
on strange scripture.
Sees the letters move like trees.

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