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Last Rain
by Don Narkevic

Last rain the dead birch fell
traversing the swollen creek,
the clay bank whittled away
by the insistent will of water.
Roots unable to hold ground
let earth move on.

Last rain a north wind resurrected
the decay of leaves stirred
by your footsteps.
Leaning in to kiss me as custom,
you thought better of it, and
while distant thunder brooded,
you whispered goodbye.

Last rain as I returned
to an empty house I stopped
to watch a gray squirrel
testing the fallen birch.
Like a tightrope walker
sensing danger, it hesitated
above the muddled water and
turned back toward the familiar
woods that lay beyond the field
I will leave fallow another season.


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