Letters congeal, to words.
Words anneal to sentences,
which tell a story,
painted as images,
imagined in the mind's eye,
trying to emulate what
the eye sees briefly,
on the see-saw.
A glint of sunlight,
caught slanted and sharp
on windowpane reflected,
stabbed in pain
with shad of glass.
The edges of a leaf
curl up, roll inward.
Rust-red throws of dying,
shriveling in sun, drying.
A flash of white
a bird's...
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