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Window Seat

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Orange warms

the early winter horizon,

birds I'll never know flicker

in the thicket just beyond my seat

by the frosted window. The slick disguise

I've committed to

over these months slips

for a moment, my facade sliding

like a tear down a loved one’s cheek.

Submerged vibrations,

Leviathan-ancient, ripple

upward, shake loose the fabric

folds I've wrapped round the tellings.

The echoes shift aside the icy mist

that scours the sun. An orange cat perches

on the upholstered arm of my favourite chair.

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