This is neither beginning nor end

In the well of glass around the front porch light,
small remnants of wings: soft brown, dark speckled,

then turning to ash. With each rain, their smudge
more closely matches the verdigris on the copper frame.

Like letters I started but forgot to finish,
they are always about to arrive.

When the wind skims the roof lightly,
sometimes I wonder which wing is tapping.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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