Wordle: Stream

Wordle 287 The Sunday Whirl
Wordle 287
The Sunday Whirl

 

Attuned To Anything (Like Spring)

Isn’t it strange? A heron plucked me from the data stream,
signed shares to a Carolina wren. The sky is filled
with lines of code–crows deal in Visa, mockingbirds spill
my secrets all every day. Night winds snicker my dreams.
Marooned between brown grass and buzzards, part meme
part trope, incoherent I swing between despair and silliness.
Isn’t it strange?

Duck clouds and chickweed are scams–not what they seem.
But when hope holds out its magic lamp boons, I’m still
not inclined to deny them wholeheartedly. Maybe willing
suspension of disbelief has shimmied into my cynical theme.
Isn’t it strange?

 

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