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Sonnet 13


The hunter and the deer are in the woods.
Right now no gunshots explode the quiet.
Only the wind’s unafraid to riot
in a few leaves, shaking the branches good
the living skeletons of wintertime.
I hear some crows as far away as clouds
flying down in circles starting to caw
over the blue valley having just spied
a doe’s butchered guts steaming on the ground
where squirrels rifle acorns and a young pine
chopped down for Christmas has let a branch lie
green as the summer when the insects sound.
I hear a car come droning up the road
father and son inside with orange hats on.


Drawings by Akram


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