the sun
lies low, hugging the horizon,
its rays flat, lowered, angling
for the last strands of the green
on the mud-beset ground.

only the lichen
shine back from the craggy
brown apple-trees.

in a fork, brightly
a raven’s feather, a pike
of metallic sheen, vibrating
with the wind’s breath.

the sun
coldly withers
and moves on:

to probably Australia,
to be hot and high, and make
things red and dusty,
thirsty like the tattered eucalypti
with roots so deep.

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