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The pond is brackish a smear of lichen, a low shaded haze. Water birds dabble in their sleep. Soon the sun will dash across a drop of dew bursting dams of light. Feathers will shake off dwindling shadows, wings slap the ponds surface until the water awakes. By then my eyes will shine like silver moons; I will write a poem but not this one.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022

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