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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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I don’t know much of Route 66

 

                                          

other than the sounds of the winds

as they blow from Illinois

to the West—picking up souls,

and dirt, and other similar debris

that can do nothing else

but dance along

the cracked and crumbling road

until it is burnt up by the sun,

deposited in the gullets of birds,

turned into pith, then into feathers, then flight.

 

          —Timothy Stobierski