Previously published by InterBoard Poetry Community, 2014.
Badlands Ribbons of heat lift a red-tailed hawk to circle the crevasse. Eleven trees, branches bare, stand gnarled and wind-worn. Set the sun. Silhouette, jagged and strange. It’s too late. Seared.
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Gail WawrzyniakIt could be what happened on my last vacation, a national news event, a single line from one of the many books in my bookshelves, or a personal remembrance. Archives
January 2016
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