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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.