1807
5.345
11.xii.24
travels in the death
of a tree
in cicada days
for the Gore Cove Track Series
a run up
clear the
head
whose claws?
it’s all this
time still
snack to beak
wings to
catch
sky in the
least
it was this
life all reach
telling out
leaf was
corner for
the sun to bud
all falling
just to be
it’s savagery
to run the stream
its shadows
flighted in the fall
lauded where
we are
stretch legs
my feet are
away with me
bin chickens at low tide
it’s
underneath the ancient webs
we’ll find
our sandstone sun
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