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The Soothsayer
We feel plastic,
peas to the teeth,
hair of dawn's grass.
The sheep chew.
The sky glitters red, a copper of coming,
bent to a lost god's will.
There's something in the air.
The sky swallows a deep gulp.
An oak's fist of birds flee,
clouding like pepper grains.
The sheep look up, afraid.
How can the old man say which will die?
The answers are shapes in the sky.
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