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beth stclair Apr 2015
the shadows drifting into
the darkness,
the burying of rain.

ink drying from its calm
blue river.

a swan with its
heavy wings leaning
on the water, scattering
its song of the dark.

the tide's relentless
pull to the moon's white

light, an impressionist's
brush-stroke and all the
rivers lit in blues.

— The End —