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the flocks combine
a roar of wings above the drier field
we feel it too the urge to fly
nomads restless in the clearer night
deeper in the banded velvet void
seeking peace expecting less
chipmunks clucking in the stonerows
deer in the sweetcorn empty husks
purple stains upon the path
the earth-song of the cricket through it all
the sound of our own breathing
the roaring of our blood
migration through the inner dark
we hear the apple fall
