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| >> Static Item >> Poetry >> Nature >> ID #1483962 |
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My Leave
Sun comes, later— bird calls screeching, squirrel chatter, distant dog, barking Cricket sounds simmer down— an echo, echoing Fizzle of fire, boiling life from limb, no breeze, smoke vertical, leaves fall slowly still— The tree let go, will I?
© Copyright 2008 Dan Sturn (UN: dansturn at Writing.Com).
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