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What can mangroves do

when the clouds grumble

and the sky short-circuits

and starts spewing ragged sparks?

Their arms are too heavy

to cover their heads; their feet

too bound by roots to run, they

face the executioner’s black hood

between jagged flashes of fright.

No wonder their trunks are twisted,

turning away. No wonder 

so many storms come – easy prey.

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