the
weight of the rain
like
the weight of the world
is
enough to pull the maples
all
the way down
touching
the ground
a
couple of mourning doves coo & tilt their heads
right
before taking a stiff drink
flying
off to find shelter
if
you break ground
on
the ridge
you'll
eventually find
handmade
brick
from
an ancient kiln
the
markers have been left
for
the history
to
be found
bare
footprints are a perfect census
a
community gathers and then
grows
a village
long
before the long rifles
of
twisted tongues
there
were songs sung out
in
love
and
reverence
--- e b bortz
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