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circle

the circle

A serene ring of standing stones
Quietly watches the grey winters morning.
There is not much to see
Except for a handful of trees leaning hunched and
Nude against the murky sky.
Not nude as in a soft pink woman
But stark and angular and grey
Casting twisted shadows across the straggling fields,
Crooked splashes of dusk that fade
As the ice cold sun meanders into noon.
Where the stones stand naked without shadows.