Wrapped in their blue

iron rag of a car

mother and child

sing loudly.

Heads up

in the warped torn steel,

their rusty voices

hushed by windows

closed on a grey day.

They smile each to each

in their warm rug of a car

they are their song.


Every day I work on my song. Every day I  use my voice. Just like the birds, the dogs, cats and all the Beings I know. What about you? Is your voice heard? Seen? Touched? Felt?

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