She sips hot tea, listens to the mourning dove out her window, as an unexplainable peace caresses her. She wonders, “is he gone?” She repeats the wonder. “Who?” More than one wait. Whoever it is, or is not, is not in her control. Fall in May Out of season she prayed All is well
Birdsong
Birdsong
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Ishaya Zephaniah 