i watched a seagull fly over a field of snow
and the word metaphor flashed through my mind
though i refused to take it any further
because all i really wanted to do was watch it fly.
by mid-afternoon the sun had melted all the snow
into a watershed running through my fingers
down over my toes and i thought that perhaps
i had imagined that shadow of white on white,
sun glinting off wings built for shores less frozen
but then (of course) i found a feather in my hair
that i am certain was as black as any raven’s
and the wind tore it from my grasp precisely
at that perfect, beautiful moment when
i recognized the color of hunger.
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