What else can be taken?

are there words for this moment?

am I here for the words?

the windy whistling of avian chatter,

like a lace rope, threaded in a circle around me,

a box of street traffic downhill, slightly opened.

a siren its open bow.

my hands stop above the keys,

my bettah stares at me,

‘what now?,

what else can be taken from the air?”

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