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November Dawn

by Glenn Freeman


The first dusting of snow and a wicked wind

whirls the last leaves skyward. Gray dawn

and the windchimes in a frenzy. Eggs on

the stove, coffee steaming, window blinds

shivering with the gusts. A young oak

pulls at its tether and I imagine

years from now, leaning in its thick skin

to the south, gnarled and bent with wind and smoke

through the limbs. Starlings line up at feeders

despite our feeble attempts to scare them

away. It's mornings like this I wonder when

my life became what it is, its false starts, detours,

dead ends. Like plant cuttings on the sill, we grow

in jars of water, leaning toward the window.