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In the place called
Autumn there is no trace
against the sky of
green and only shadow
fire as the sun
burnishes the tall reeds
flushing a bright
pheasant, a dark raven,
and across the bitter
marshes the wind
tastes of blue ice, of
lost continents beneath.
Originally published in Burning Cloud Review 1998.
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© 2010 W. Luther Jett. All rights reserved.