Dawn
The pond is brackish
a smear of lichen,
a low shaded haze.
Water birds dabble in their sleep.
Soon the sun
will dash across a drop of dew
bursting dams of light.
Feathers will shake off
dwindling shadows,
wings slap the ponds surface
until the water awakes.
By then
my eyes will shine like silver moons;
I will write a poem
but not this one.
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