Last night lying quiet
on the beige concrete
before my black shoes
two branched maple twigs
like the veins of
the leaves that they
would have born arced
outward in opposite directions.
Walking that same path
today I find that
they are gone, pushed
onward once more by
the winds of Nissan--
or maybe they've become
the crimson-blooded wings
of some newborn angel--
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