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below leaden
clouds
a mist hangs over green
pastures
November is grey
with hints of white—
trumpeters amass just after
Hallowe'en, their feathers
solid white for adults
a mixture of black and grey
for the adolescent few
when taking to the sky
they blend perfectly
their honking de-cloaking
them momentarily
white clumps in a stubbled field
they sit and hiss
necks craning or laid against
fluffed feathered backs
blue skies are seldom
this month
water levels ebbing and flowing
temperatures, too
only one thing constant—
the swans
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