The trees have not moved
in many days. Birds
perch on their bones- praying.

Still-born the night
within its tight womb.
Every death hidden.

If the world is turning,
no one sees. When light
descends, the mirage
of movement dismissed
as dream, the heaviness

of grief...

how it stands still
in the far corners
of a field, downcast

as grave. As trees.

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