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To The Elusive White Birches
by Lorraine Healy
Between Tumwater Canyon
and a ghost town I look
for them. I want them
wet with drizzle,
soaked in fog,
their leaves already sun enough.
The paper peeling off
their icy bark.
I chase them,
ask them to be surrounded
by other trees’ red
and gold.
I call out to them
and not one answer,
those birch bastards.
Their trunks of clouds
and chalk.
I ask them
to stay still
and they open their branches
to the uncharitable wind.
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