Let someone else find the autumnal sign that tumult is upon us, hanging from the trees' shroud of the riparian zone on another gray day dancing in the howling ice you've hidden in your cheek. The locals cross the gap wearing safety glasses and iridescent vests the laborers no longer need now that the tiles are drying in the sun; now that the wild grasses have been cut back to opaline iridescence with lavender calcinations, and sodium and talc and tin is hand-blown and polished until black as lava. I'm seeing hawks again gather ashen rabbits against the snow, rising on the valley with its square and breathy buildings between ice threads on my lashes. |
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