Posted by: okathleen | February 18, 2009

Morning

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I drag the curtain across the creaking pole and grimace at the indigo taint 

that means the day has started.

But where the plumptious pigeon usually sits in the cleft of a stunted branch

squats a hunched buzzard.

I drill the ancient glass with my fist. He slowly turns his head, blinks and clatters up

and over the oaks. 

The rooks erupt and screech and squall.

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