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Cold nights are experienced through the ears,
the constant cricket chirping ceaselessly
over rolling rumbles from rushing airplanes
overhead, and the mirrored inhale, exhale
of a car rolling up, and past. For suburbs,
it's something resembling serene, silence—
or as close to it as cities get—sitting soft
on slanted shingles. When some solemn
evening gets pierced by crow's calls, the cold
sinks deep into the cracks of the night's
foundation, a caterwauling that casts
the night into cauterized stillness. Come
morning, will the crows still call?
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April 24
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