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"On the Horizon" by Scott Odom
Hermitage
Crows busy with unworked seed
laugh and leave toward evening
as leaves of fall, fast-forwarded,
turn red like blood fingering across
the green linoleum kitchen floor
after the thud of the back of your head
split like a too-ripe pumpkin.
The trees in the yard mourn the wood
you’d stacked anticipating winter
as it dries, rots, quietly decays
and Aprils later splinters and skips off
across tan, fallow fields
in a cold wind wet
with the rustle of black wings.
c2005 Craig Kirschner
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