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13 Auguries First, a gong at the window. Not the sparrow who occasionally lobs himself at my smudged glass, but a pigeon: a one-eyed feral with mange. The heft of his belly meat shudders the pane before he drops, bent-feathered to the ground. An hour later the creaking rend of magnolia: dusty garments split, bow at each sprout as the wood flesh cracks to air with a yawn. The tree’s crown tilts for earth, drops its heavy blossoms to the dirt. Power poles yaw in gathering wind, lines pull slack against rough tide. Sidewalks bulge with storm and stress; lights in houses snap off when a worm of black cable sparks at chilled asphalt. After the wind, shrubs recover spines, test the air with frost-bone digits. I walk to the street, rubber-booted, make appraisal of each static hurt. To what significance such eroded things? ...

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