like the day i stepped barefoot on a dead mole in the garden
he'd ascended
from inside dark tunnel and rooted passage
where he surfaced fat above the broken skin of turned soil
and offered his final breath to a baking sun
a fresh breeze
to lavender growing just above a pointed snout
paddled-feet raised
he laid there, bared to fresh rain
and cotton wood
his head cocked at the insistence of shrill cicada
in a place where the wren's song was no longer muffled
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