
in my fishing line.
I clipped the hook
as I tried to free him
without damaging
his warm-as-a-boiled-egg body.
I grabbed at pieces
of line
here and there.
it began to loosen
and I pulled him
through its convoluted loops
as through a tunnel.
for a moment,
then leaped to freedom.
he fell toward the water,
sucked in by a blue wave
and a large pair of fins.
he had never existed.
Small Bird poem by Alan Harawitz
Original Small bird photo by Tim Borski
Small Bird image by El Pescador
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