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★★★★★ (4)
Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #1483962

Morning fire.

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?


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