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The Flight

Little birds perch in barn rafters
and gather the dead end of summer,
when the last leaves of the season
are but left there for a reason.

Winter whispers,
taps broomweed and goldenrod,
touching their leaves in shivers,
and the world winds down to rivers.

Soon it will be frosting on the cake,
when winter snow comes in,
like bride and groom,
and chocolate make,
and all the world is white
upon the wedding cake.

The sycamore will disown its own,
a rich uncle casting leaves,
into all the nooks and crannies,
and all the windless eaves.

The still scorpion moves, and the
sting of the north wind blows
in thrusts,
fluttering the birds,
in hovering little herds.

The ducks and geese head out in flight,
if you're lucky enough to see them,
you might just want to be them.

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