Autumn Postcards

Ernesto Trejo

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An arrowhead of birds heading South.
On a Greyhound bus, field workers
huddle at the rear and lip-synch
to their shiny radios.

At the bottom of a dry canal,
among tires, beer cans, a shopping cart,
a child's lost ball, shoes, lamps,
what-nots, I saw the body of a woman,
impatient, like a Buick stuck in traffic.

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