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crane

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October 2013, vol 8, no 3

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Joanna Ashwell


Last Call

It was a biting cold. One of those nights when each step taken becomes more laboured. Your face frozen into a permanent smile, lips clenched tight. You just can't help looking up into the black. Baring your skin to an even harsher cold just to stare at the clarity.

caught mid-fall
the sharpest lights
stars brand the night

On a night like this a brisk walk becomes a discovery. The dog's nose gets higher and higher in the air. Sniffing at his own layers of mystery and delight.

the secluded cut
we share with bats
indistinct shapes fork above us




crane