when I was a boy taking milk to market
with my grandfather, we rounded a curve
on the pig trail that connected us with
the other world and were met by a fleet
of blue, green, and yellow wild canaries.
I was spellbound and he pulled over
so I could watch them go from right
to left across the cracked windshield
of his '39 Ford pick-up and into the scruffy
underbrush of the River Valley.
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