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A tin rain ticks between the scrabble of pigeon claws. Time falls from its cliff edge. One moment can land years behind the now as the shrunken head of a whole decade, a bushel of owls in each drip of rain ….aftershocks. Listening as if on a telephone, sliding into the woe-be-gone, time is never bright, rabbit holes always dark. Pigeon wings clatter rain softens to a measured splish. The tick of tin roofs, the rattle and rattails of the sounding seconds declare it is time but for what?