r. sent me this poem i don't recall seeing before. it reminded me of the time i got a b.b. gun and i shot a bird on a telephone wire. i was as shocked as i imagine the bird was, though only one of us fell dead. that was enough for gun control, for a life i still have in my ribcage, a still occasionally fluttering feathered death.

If you saw a bullet hit a Bird - and he told you he wasn't shot - you might weep at his courtesy, but you would certainly doubt his word.

i looked and it was the beginning of a letter to an unknown recipient she called Master. it goes on and then closes with

No Rose, yet felt myself a'bloom,
No Bird - yet rode in Ether.


emily dickinson 

thas a sad poem. a sad poem is like a hug when you feel sad.