Under a Willow

Under a Willow


Sitting on a bench
under a willow,
facing a lagoon,
in a spot that I think of as my spot
that is really not,
vaguely feeling the sensations of a body
that is really not,
I notice the number
of cigarette butts.

They were slowly made grey
and disguised by dirt.

I think to myself
why was this spot
not enough for the people
who sat here and chased
a nicotined enhancement of nature,
or were all the cigarettes
smoked by one person
who also thinks of this spot
as their spot?
Is each cigarette a way
of tabulating life,
celebrating it,
or ending it?

Returning my attention
to the chirps of nature:
Is it possible, I wonder,
that I could be a birder?
I might not be detail-oriented enough
to be a birder in the truest sense,
or rather, I do not care
about the details of feathers
as much as I care
about the majesty of flight
and the impressions created
by the flecks, pitches, and taxonomy
within my nebulous soul.
Does that make me a birder?
Or am I a weeping willow,
a man without a cigarette?

David Pring-Mill

As a professional technology journalist and startup consultant, David Pring-Mill has been quoted in Forbes, CNBC, Business Insider, and USA Today. In his spare time, he writes poetry. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Poetry Quarterly, Boston Literary Magazine, East Coast Literary Review, FIVE:2:ONE, and many other literary journals. You can visit his website at www.pring-mill.com and follow his handle @davesaidso on Twitter.

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