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 The slow overture of rain, 
each drop breaking 
without breaking into 
the next, describes 
the unrelenting, syncopated 
Not unlike the hummingbirds imagining their wings to be their heart, and swallows believing the horizon to be a line they lift and drop.
What is it they cast for? The poplars, advancing or retreating, lose their stature equally, and yet stand firm, making arrangements in order to become imaginary.
The city draws the mind in streets, and streets compel it from their intersections where a little belongs to no one.
It is what is driven through all stationary portions of the world, gravity's stake in things, the leaves, pressed against the dank window of November soil, remain unwelcome till transformed, parts of a puzzle unsolvable till the edges give a bit and soften.
See how then the picture becomes clear, the mind entering the ground more easily in pieces, and all the richer for it.

Poem by Jorie Graham
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