October Land
J.L. Terrell

Sound travels the multitude
Of serpentine hills,
Beneath a tremendous shadow

Dead tree limbs
Hide beneath a mailbox
While
A great crow caws
From power line
To precipice

The light is half the length
From
The humming machine at the steps
To the crisp fir needles in the chill.

Three white dishes
Attend an endless ceiling
And the light breeze
Lifts a gentle hand.

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