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LEAVING THE TOPS
it’s the wrong day to open
the door with a mouth
full of questions. instead
the air opened with the
whoosh of fir needles before
the tree fell and coupled
like a trainyard into the dirt.
I’m sorry. how many boardfeet
make up your house? when a
stranger says please do you listen
first with your eyes? after ten hours
work I learned larch trees are
not a metaphor, but instead change
with the seasons, & what here doesn’t?
even the snow, & kokanee in Grave Creek,
broke down log truck & tired forester can feel the
air beneath the limbs become
brief, briefer, sudden like a tear, shortened
into a single sound.
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