How would you now,
If you're favorite line in a poem,
Was nothing but a tiepo,
Your favorite writer forgo to catch,
Maybe I'm a typo to,
Just a random squigigle on the page,
A little piece of see glass in the waves.

It'is awful-e clere,
Righting just write.
En a langauge like t-his,
Culd bee, quiet confuseing.

Ofetn,
I spel wordz,
Awefully wong.

Flying in the skying so bule and wide
diving and swooping through branches so fast,
zooming past widnows and houses and cats.

Licking their lips and ready to pounce,
claws like switchblades silce the air.

Feathers ruffled and muffled and shuffled
dirfting to the ground weaving to and fro.

-AM