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This Pasture

I've been walking all my life

to get to this wire fence,

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thirty years just to glimpse

a bobolink gathering leaf

to make a nest. A summer

of building, a season for

what the ground proffers

to the industrious. The mare

sweeps at flies, grazes.

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I could tear down this fence

and follow the currents

of windblown grasses,

sail clear across this pasture.

Yes, there is a place

for every one of us,

a curving world without capture.

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