from by Cree Sullivan

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Nose-dive, swooping towards the big old fig tree,
All dried up in little raisins,
Click, grind, talons on the bedrock,
Time to go line up and try again.

This blackbird spinning through a figure-eight
'Till it wears out and touches down,
The call heard ringing through the canyon started here
Turns out.
I'm stricken by the sound.

I have gotta get going,
The temperature is dropping, and the yellows are showing,
But leave the tree, to scavenge in the weeds,
One stumbled by the stream,
And we marked him unidentified:
Watched his feathers fly.

Stiff with mud out in the haunting autumn
All dried on out in the sun,
This crackling skin is blending in and thickening,
All piled on around itself.

A burst of strength and I'm a mile down river,
All splayed out along the shore,
Some 45 degrees and wet the neck down, beat and torn up,
Worn out.
But mammals heat themselves.


from Whirring, released August 19, 2014



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Cree Sullivan Urbana, Illinois

Alt rock with a lemon zest. Get into it.

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