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Squirrels swim in the ocean of leaves and needles
toward the black tasteless almond. Slumber
overcomes hitchhikers, too tall to discern the stones
under the feet. The sun follows them
to the end of dust where it dies, according to vintage helicopters.

No sound becomes it. No color becomes the sky.
What a gleeful disappointment to follow blind squirrels
to the end of a cloud.