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auguress :: michael shewmaker

by on January 15, 2016

The pendulum of her clock keeps perfect time.
Impatient, propped against the windowsill,
she waits for noon, for flights departing north
from the neighboring airport. As they climb,
their steel bellies drag broad shadows across
her lawn. She fidgets as the garden dims:
her roses and the untrimmed clematis,
the hanging feeder—her entire street
darkens beneath the turbines’ hiss.
                                                   Before
and after, she often wonders where they go—
imagines conversations, attendants neat
and eager, rows of smiles as sharp as scythes—
but while their passing shadows briefly fill
her empty teacup to its brim—she knows.

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