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Gordon Kippola
Weather
Those branches move in
ways they would not choose.
There’s blowhard jerks
at every compass point
jostling for dominance.
East-southeast form a syndicate,
for today at least. Waves obey.
The moon pulls back. Clouds
play a mystery game, crossing
the sky in smooth apathy.
It all comes down to this,
I watch branches from a window.
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