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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 3, September 2013

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Marilyn Humbert
Sydney, New South Wales, Australia


Nest

A piercing cry slashes the morning. Wings whirr, swoop and wheel in the fog. I curse under my breath, tripping in a patch of bulrushes in the swamp paddock. I emerge scratched, with soggy feet, swooped again.

mist shrouds
the grasslands
and a nest—
beneath black feathers
five speckled eggs

Dad says the same pair of plovers nests here every year. (So unlike my parents, leaving me to ponder new step-siblings and relations).

silent sun
keeper of secrets
my heart
pulled
in all directions

The plovers are persistent and dog my footsteps to the fence line nearest the house.

above my head
the whoosh of wings
I stumble
along the littered path
that is my life

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end

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