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On The Edge Of A Field


A line of yellow maples crack

Spilling branches on

Late autumn wheat.

This is the sound of

Something Ending.

This is the sound of

Being Alone.

Evening.

In Majesty approaches.

Listen.

Be still.

There are owls in the trees.

A Barn and a Grey.

You can hear them.

But not see them.

The sheltering dark.

Moments away.


First Published by The Orchards Poetry Journal

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