Look, the eucalyptus, the Atlas pine, the yellowing ash, all the trees are gone, and I was older than all of them. I am older than the moon, than the stars that fill my plate, than the unseen planets that huddle together here at the end of a year no one wanted. A year more than a year, in which the sparrows learned to fly backwards into eternity. Their brothers and sisters saw this and refuse to build nests. Before the week is over they will all have gone, and the chorus of love that filled my yard and spilled into my kitchen each evening will be gone. I will have to learn to sing in the voices of pure joy and pure pain. I will have to forget my name, my childhood, the years under the cold dominion of the clock so that this voice, torn and cracked, can reach the low hills that shielded the orange trees once. I will stand on the back porch as the cold drifts in, and sing, not for joy, not for love, not even to be heard. I will sing so that the darkness can take hold and whatever is left, the fallen fruit, the last
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4/22/2025 4:13:48 AM # 1.0.0