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by ellen
Waves move in the dark
No moon, no light
No luminous whitewater
The Santa Anas have come

Torn branches, other people's trash
Newspaper pages, plastic bags
Take-out food containers
Garbage can lids
Recyclable aluminum

The winds are mad
Intrude through the spaces
In my house
Leave particles of sand
Use up all my moisture

What do the birds do
In such fierce wind
Ground animals must burrow
Gentle horses must shut
Their eyes and pray

No good comes
Of these winds
But a falsely clear sky
Where a red line of smog sits
On the Channel Islands

Certain seeds need fire
To germinate
And survive
I'm not sure I can adapt
To this autumn place


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