The stone wall gives up before it gets to the stile,
petering out into a moraine of rounded river rocks
spreading to either side.
A gate holds to a leaning
post by one rusted iron finger. It seems to matter
little, though, with nothing to say what was once
held in or out. In a
shallow depression near one grey
stone, a killdeer mother frets and whistles like a wind-up
tin bird before settling on her speckled clutch of four,
her neck and head still bobbing, spy-hopping
aspirationally from stone to stone.
(from Clapboard House, 2013)
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