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Alec Kowalczyk
 BEGINNING THE END
 
 This blustery winter morning,
 
 I see a fallen sycamore leaf,
 its trembling edge half buried in snow.
 
 But faraway I’m thinking,
 
 the scales of a fallen stegosaurus,
 its rib cage writhing before the coming ice.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
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