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I walk, she said
because I do, I walk
in rain. Through fields of brown
dead stalks, shorn close for winter.
Through autumn woods,
tangled branches, tired,
too worn to clutch the stubborn rags of red.
A din, then, a rising crash of
trumpets out of tune.
Geese–not chevrons, though, not pairs or columns,
Hundreds.
The pewter sky falls black with churning wings.
Discordant, frenzied, north they fly in autumn, thousands lost,
out of their time,
out of time.
This storm will be bad, she said.
These are endings.
These are endings.

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