. . .

I'll close the year with images from the backyards of my mother's and brother's homes where this morning I woke in the dark to roosters crowing outside my window and elsewhere in the distance. They crowed to each other, to themselves, in answer, in echo, insisting as reflections do that among them all, all that familiarity, is the source. The original. The one that started the whole thing in motion. In the first place.

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