The Staccato

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A blackbird whispered in a blue, sing-song
voice — “it’s about time for you to rejoin
the stars.” Dried leaves start to unfurl, knowing,
seemingly hearing the but one-sided
negotiation. No, it was more a
howling sound than it was an innocent
whistle. The rock has withered but its strength remains
pronounced in humble silence; stock flowers
have woken up to speak odes in mauve light.

“Have a safe trip,” we sing. “You’re never forgot.”

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