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  • I stared out the window at the rain. I wrote a short "story" about it. It sounded so much like a poem, I made it into one.


    Mists of water fall
    and fall. No damp squirrel, no
    bird, no elm leaf stirs.

    Elm leaves and their lean
    branches droop, pulled down
    by a weight of rain.

    In silhouette, sparse
    leaves and lean branches etch themselves
    against wet grey sky.

    a cycle of three haiku
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