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Barbara Daniels To Luck A fox jogs brazenly toward me, lean belly swaying, then steps into purple brush, quietly parting the leaves. I can’t understand why I miss the nights I was most afraid, the gaps where shadows lay down beside deeper shadows. Sunlight slips over surfaces, not valediction, just a slow coming to terms. A spider waits, long legs, body a black dime. To luck, I say, now that I know what bad luck brings. Bits of light dip and weave, cast by water like flawed green jade. Fleeting color washes the water. A goldfinch alights in chicory. The river flows toward ice again through the idea of summer. |