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Branch

the crisp sparrow
its early crackle
somewhere
on dawn's grey chart

the creak of bending water
the wet rocks' awk

the sun skids to a halt
half-covered by cloud

inside a tree
a millilitre of sap takes a wrong turn
ends up in that branch
rather than this

a kind of miniature horse does not become extinct
the English develop no word for garden
a leaf skuttles its way into the middle of a field

is soon blown away




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