Sunday, March 31, 2019

Octavio Quintanilla writes


As a boy, I’d climb trees,
reach into nests birds would leave unattended.
I’d fill my hand with small eggs, and often
one or two hatchlings would stare at me
from behind the sprigs.
There were times I wanted
to take them home, keep them as my own,
raise them, imagined their beaks
would one day open to call me, “Father.” 
Mockingbird Hatchlings -- Annie Glacken

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