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by Helen Losse After the rain has fallen into the graveyard, I hear the hidden wings of an owl in the lonely, country grove. Fallen leaves— wet, brown, & curled— lie on the hallowed ground or sit on the tombstones nearby. Jittery shadows blow—moving darkly—in the cooling evening breeze, beneath the indelible slit of a late October moon. The once-trapped raindrops are descending from moving branches in silver-bullet cascades, refurbishing foot-shaped puddles— carelessly left— next to a freshly opened grave. And under heavy brush and behind a picket fence, the loosed water pounds a black, ’30s sedan in a fertile setting for resplendent legend— concerning Bonnie & Clyde—complete with an accent of goldenrod, of rust. |
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