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"This is not a test..."

A darkness whirling

through woodland

up and over carved rock

into the central currents,

a heroic severity of will

breaking on the cliffs,

pulling down detritus

to a fluid, feral fate —

these bodies, streaming,

lining the haphazard trees

lean and bare and open:

lions in a field of lions,

and so obviously

meant to wander

and run and leap

through the night and

past the morning light,

shoulders burnt brown

now golden and great

in a whirling dawn.

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