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Augury
In cold December graveyard, leafless twig hands stretch doom outward at cruel wind’s bidding. Stripped of their finery, the lofty oracles offer a disfigured alphabet to time’s sinister march. Twisted sisters, they sing a potent nursery rhyme, saying hush-a-bye to both cradle and tomb, rocking and writhing, while thirteen black birds cackle and caw among the winnowed boughs. 10-10-07 |
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