thicket ovenbird “I write to flush the hidden birds out of the thicket.” –Jane Hirshfield In my chest: A twisted bramble dense with thorns and the possibility of fruit. Within: the opening and closing of hungry mouths. Eggs: cracked open leaking yellow futures over the last leaves. The rustle of paper. The rustle of wings. The dawning of song in the hollow throat. Words: The wind that fuels the capacity for flight. 260107 what's it to you? who go blather from