light winter rain ticks
through bay laurel.
concealed,
i watch ducks.
where does the bright
edge of this grey misted morning
enter the page?
the paper glows and
the black ink shimmers -
some duckweed still green
after the cold snap
clings to the bank of
the slough that drains to the bay.
too hazy to see the
other side.
it's not a trick or conjecture
that we are real.
look around.
listen to that raven rattle his talk
somewhere above me and
the canopy.
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