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    Thad DeVassie

    1. Cricket Hymn

    By Thad DeVassie

    This is not what the prognosticators had in mind. The scorched beauty. The soft silence. The soaking it in with wonder and trepidation of a child in an experienced frame, experience that is now meaningless.

    Yes, these barren, meandering paths are on simmer. Ominous smoke-steam rising hints that a shift to boil is coming. The chaotic-mute landscape reveals what’s left of a wooden-handled screwdriver,
    a high heel-less shoe with no companion, a large, threadbare coat button, an empty and soiled snack-size bag of chips—a collage of misfit mediums on a thick canvas of ash.

    In the distance, we hear . . . Read More.

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