We’re not at Wildacres anymore, but still working on image and poetry

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rainy day when everything swirls

like ink floating on water

that prints the shape of mountains

islands, fishing cormorants, the desert’s great saguaro

portion of a spiral—Andromeda

galaxy pinwheeling stars that

spread across blank space

or DNA that unfurls

within the eggs of birds that now are flown

what might remain, a feather, or a breath

what’s written in the sky, both foul and fair

the clouds, the smoke—must speak of elsewhere

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Photographs: Isabel Winson-Sagan
Poem: Miriam Sagan

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