On the Approach of her Twenty-Ninth Birthday

How old were we
in the flood?
She counts the correlations
now, rising water,
arriving birds.
Hinged on a pigeon
that floated like a duck
in the tub, insistent on doing
everything she did.
The future fans before her
like a spread wing,
each year a flight,
each anomaly the hopeful
promise of success.
The present still
a handful of feathers,
unfulfilled.

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