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Brunch After the Apocalypse
Below the rolling dice of winter cloud
a single osprey circles the oxbow, keening
with hunger as an egret tenses, intent
on flinging its pale arrow
into the moment. It is brunch
after the apocalypse. A winnow
of sparrows nip on the deadly
nightshade’s ruby wink. Cut-throat
trout snatch jesus bugs
midstride.
In the lee of a fallen log, a frayed man
leans over a handful of embers,
his makeshift shelter behind him
buckling. His family inside.
Published in ABRAXIS
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