spruce

is dark in its green, stretching, stabbing the air handsomely; a sway and a breath, a flutter, bird-feet stuttering in wait for the snow.

the bark a little scaly, climbing, higher, higher, till the bellies of clouds are scratched invisibly, playing right into the gates of stars.

carefully leaning, the smell of resin, all freshening, out of the rain, umbrelly, drip, drip, moving with wind, into the green, into the darkness, between words,a needle.

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