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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?


© Copyright 2008 Dan Sturn (dansturn at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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