Untitled - Ryan Farrar

Ryan Farrar

Last night
I sat outside
with an old friend,
smoking a clove
from last Christmas.

It made me think
of that yellow bird;
the one with mud
caked on her feet,
that flew away
last September
after a summer that
was spent sitting on
beaches and riding
bicycles up and down
countless paths.

For a long time I thought
about going to look in
cities for her, but instead
I realized that
Not all birds have to be yellow.