Tuesday

Birdsong.
Wind chime.
The scrabble
of dog’s paws
on the wood
surface of the deck.
Far off,
the rough and rumble
of traffic on the freeway.
A chopper, chasing down
the latest crime
or accident.
Birdsong.
Wind chime.
Bark.

And in Rome,
black smoke
from the Sistine Chapel.
No Pope.

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