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there’s a cloud
above the meadow
where ancient starlings spin
twelve across
as one
their feathers glide
slicing through my morning
a reflection of the sun
as cedars press around
on every side

clementine and ash
are twisted by the barn
a piece of lace
left over from the spring
crickets come alive
for a pleasure
born of shade
and I still lie awake
to hear them sing

. . .