fallow
lands show remnants
of the fertile fields once
resurgent with fruits and flowers
now dead
a vine
scorched, withered stalks, baked earth still plowed
in straight rows, abandoned
near the empty
farmhouse
blackbird
crows his triumph
over the broken down body of a gopher
pecking through skin and matted fur
to the overheated innards that failed
their owner
the oak
with its labyrinth
of blackened branches now bare
still carries the weight of an empty
tire swing
and I-
who spent my childhood here and swung
high enough to scare my father-
know at last there is no
going back
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