Leaves have no choice
but to articulate the wind: aspens like zills, aglint and atilt;
the willow, a lone zither. Riffling the cottonwoods at dusk,
winds find me cushioned against the concrete in the open-air garage,
facing the trees, the drive, the road, the mountains up the canyon’s
other side, until an onrush bellows a mindless heartless ecstasy
through the empty sack of me. | 
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