The Deep Trees

Hermit thrush,

under cover,

of the deep trees,

barely heard,

so far away.

Did I really hear it?

Is it a memory?

Like the ones

of my father’s voice,

or my sister’s laughter,

under cover,

of the years gone by,

since I heard them.

 

Now,

their voices haunt

the deep trees,

of memory,

fading back and away,

until barely heard,

and finally,

becoming,

whispers.

IMG_6582

 

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