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Napowrimo day 20- Ritual

Thick mists and darkness linger. Crows try
listlessly to call the day into being, to
dissipate the vapour and somehow praise
the unknown. One plummets, arrow in the
fog, landing crooked. A fragile wing mutilated.
It cries, summoning the dawn, the golden world.

Prompt was to “make a golden shovel” from the Poetry in the Time of Being Alone group. I used a line from this poem for this one.

Let me know what you think

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