Riding the cyclone going home,
the earth a bed of fog and we so full of god
having burned down the clocktower
bathed in spark showers
unpeeled through the year
in discovery of our powers.
On the approach of morning light
the grackles grounded flight
conquers the crossroads with
a blanket of little shadows.
Possum in the middle
with my foot upon the pedal.
This world a constant riddle
in which we test our mettle.
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