it starts sometime in November
driving home from Starbucks
a flock of pigeons packed on the
peak of a tile roof turned in
reverence towards the sun
when I arrive I head outside
rotate my favorite backyard chair
east and curl up with the steam
rising from my cup of tea
basking is a kind of begging
taking without giving
thieves stuffing warm morning light
into the chill of empty pockets
craving for it to sink
into their cold souls
once in India I watched
a white crane sunbathe
one-legged in a misty lagoon
head buried in a basket of white
feathers but for one dark eye
that disappeared with the rising sun
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