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The season

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They talk as they fly, their sound alone against the midnight silence. In my dark bed, deep in warmth, I pause from sleep: knowing the pull of autumn's wind, how their wings are tipped with silver and the shadows of their strong necks long against the moon. I feel the surge of going, going, pulsing through a star-rimmed highway. And my ears stretch taut into their echo's wake, lifting, lifting; feathers pricking my neck.

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