by W. S. Merk
And the day begins again,
This slanted light coming through the blinds--
Somewhere, the first sparks of fire,
Whipped by a building wind,
Settle happily into dry grass;
Their story begins slowly.
Small animals scent the air,
Turning to the east,
Twisting sharp ears for that first sound;
Aware, they continue with their feeding,
Ready for flight,
Reading the pages of summer
In a sky spread with darkening words.
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