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Hazel C Hutchison
I had forgotten birch-trees. Birch-trees I think are the cool thin sound Earth likes to make when it is weary Of shouting mountains, screaming waterfalls, And chanting hot tremulous plains. I had forgotten slim white trees, Beating a silvery rhythm Upon the gray insistence Of autumn twilight. I should have stayed away From this motionless forest of stone. Here is the same pale frozen music; And above, in the dark somewhere, A bird too—screaming.