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Living incense, the grass
now flat and broken
releases its pungent green essence
to guide our way.
Crimson-tinged clouds
like staccato full notes
race their way to the sun
just now rising.
A murder of crows
rules a dead oak tree
and nearby a warbler sings
“I want...want, want, want”
longing, as I do,
for something unseen.
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