The Next Day

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 The Next Day

On the walk home

there are large stones

laced with orange, 

no, brown 

leaves


a breeze across the landscape

my hair is down to dance in it.


“We celebrated you 

last night,” I say

to the bridge, to the birds

to the pebbles that crunch 

beneath my feet.


Seasons change,

that’s the law; our

mortal assessment 

of cruelly or kindly 

so is of disinterest

to the trees.


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