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Past dry creek-bed
in dark hemlock-shadowedsummer woods
Parabola
of hermit thrush song
spilling
into rill of
amost-silence
Now to compass
an infinityNo longer enclosed within
muffled greenwood
echo
But instead
Streaks of quicksilver
to stir and shard
the rust-blood
heart of this morning.
-Kevin Macneil Brown