fromThe New Yorker
2 days ago"Black Walnuts"
Black walnuts hitting a barn roofFairly rapped the morning. Massachusetts,Autumn. Orioles and pumpkins.And the crack of those round shellsLike a hardwood mallet hammering a wedgeInto the moment, splitting it ever open Up ahead, letting it travel with us,Us into it, articulatedOngoing: whatever was to happen nextAnticipated as half-consciouslyAs the smack of the next mailed walnutOn the roof, but at exactly what Interval none of us could tell.
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