| Most of us have heard crashing so loud
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| We hear a constant wave that spins between our temples piercing content with
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| its sound
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| We lost the 20,000s several years ago
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| Gradually we feel it washing blank the range in which we hold the things we know
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| Put your ear to a hummingbird’s wing
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| Place the hum against the ring
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| Listen to its still and violent motion making
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| Treading water
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| We’re dense waves
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| We don’t float
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| Our stories all just sink below the mess of wake the millions of paddled palms
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| our cupped hands make (5x)
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| Overhead the goose flies low, necks curve darted straight as compass needle,
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| dislocated from his mate
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| He found her body rafting toward the mouth of the river when she disappeared
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| with the current underneath the tree trunk bridge
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| Out toward the mouth
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| Out with the spilling water
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| We saw it coming like a spirit soars directed
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| Gunshot smoke and a sinking thereafter
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| He fell fast to the ocean while the red painted feathers floated down
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| John Audubon thought about the wiring as he swam toward the twisted neck and
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| the broken boat body bobbed
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| Examining the belly for the bullet’s tiny piercing, he cried, «Oh!»
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| When a secret fluttered, a migrant hummer unlatched its grip
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| Overhead his heart sped spooked and we splashed as the gail swung cold and some
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| fish folded in the crest slap
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| It lapped at our heads, but we received it like a reprimand
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| We were too consumed by motion to perceive or understand
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| John J. Audubon, his gifted replication
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| Painted with precision, perfect vision like the shot stain
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| And the whole world swam in deaf anticipation til the goose fell like a shed
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| shell from which the humming secret sprang |