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Bring Down the Babies


by Charlotte H.


Morning.
Quiet as church.
Out on the grass thousands
of feathers like blankets
of snow.
The day drifted, gliding
on white doves and hymns,
a bazaar of voices
opening doors.
Bring down the babies.
Mother stood, face and palms
skyward.
Above ancient branches
the wind whirls, a wonderland of birds
flying wild.
Endcap