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By Casey Mills

I can’t complain about the water

pouring through the creek bed

Nor the egret gliding above it, then

finding its dead tree perch, white on gray

My heart is being cleansed, but

every time I pull it from the washing machine

I notice another stain;

back it goes, fresh load of soap.

So I give up on the machine and

walk down to the creekside where

the frogs show me how to wash a heart

just so. The rain stops, the storm clears,

and the egret chuckles, wings away

knowing he has missed a dinner of sweet

heart and frogs, but we all understand

he will be back.


Casey Mills writes poems early in the morning while his kids sleep and the birds wake. His poetry has been published in Heart of Flesh, Amethyst Review, and Ekstasis.


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