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Don Thompson
Bad Afternoon
The sky’s too low and solid,
a failed shade of bluish
plaster. Clouds
scrape their backs against it,
but keep drifting.
Everything else holds still
as if, like us,
always thinking too much—
not sure what to do next.
Trees wait for the wind
to move them, unmoved.
Finally one crow, fed up,
swats at the thick air
and shoves its way out of sight.
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