The pre-dawn sky
is nothing but an
indigo blanket
the tips of the trees
silent & motionless
the branches
skinny & naked
leaning toward
the silver stars
extended like hands
that are praying
or dying or both.
Sprinklers hiss & spit
in the darkness,
hoping to green the lawns
of their owners.
Suddenly, a jackrabbit bursts
from a bush, its left
eye riveted to my chest.
Along the avenue
cars are jet black
silhouettes
their engines
turned to ice
beneath their hoods.
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