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OctoberI found myselffollowing a trail of red spear points from the sumac next door and walked a good time until I remembered where I was supposed to be going. All season long I had wondered what the trees were saying with their leaves all red and yellow broadcast on the ground or still hanging on. Were they wishing each other a quiet winter? Were they talking to the birds (go home now, it's time) to the birds that race and wheel and stir up the sunset sky sky black as they fly across my sight red red when they turn towards me: go home now, it's time. |
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Issue #13, January, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.