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The last two swallows swoop down over all
going toward the barn flying from sight.
In ripples of wind out of the west light
dies in many clouds and in darkness falls
on the pond. Shadows in leaves, the trees grew
black in flat silhouettes against the sky
losing detail, keeping form. Good-bye. I
become invisible myself. A few
fireflies blink, the crickets and katydids
chirr and a frog croaks making me feel it
is my soul. But that’s the night. Bats fade, flit.
What I’m writing is vanishing. What was
I thinking? I can’t see my way home nor
the branch across my face suddenly formed.




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