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Now Comes the Fall
by Slater Smith
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As dusk encroaches upon the forest of pacific yews,
the brown-feather wood thrushes flock to their fruit.
Their thin wings flap noisily in the air, somehow
supporting the birds’ fat, full-bellied bodies as their
beaks pick byzantium elderberries hanging from pink
branches, shining in the last of the daylight like pearl-sized
amethyst. The wood thrushes, their slim wings flapping
mightily to support their hover, look like they could fall
at any second. Watching them from within my
grounded tent, I find myself worried they will,
knowing well that if they did fall, I would have
no chance of catching them- my legs advancing
sluggishly in the thick summer air as my eyes
follow their descent, only to watch them die.
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