All the trees on Capitol Hill
are dancing.
Light strobes through branches.
Seventy mph winds
close down the government,
crash trees
onto houses, yank shutters
off clapboard,
run a magic show across
the stage of our lives.

Trees softened
their dark, spiky
skeletons suddenly chubby
with leaves.
Mist on the horizon is moving
like a feather duster
brushing tender leaves
with brightening moisture.
Soon enough,
this fog will wisp away
above our shattered brilliance.

Patricia Gray
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