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We walk past the blackberry

bushes, to the clearest

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brook untouched by men

running free

near "Fairy Glen."

In this silent meadow

the highway is not heard.

We find where

the ponies come to rest

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and birth their foal.

Where no one could step

we make a pile of old, brown

bottles, gather broken glass,

bury a discarded container.

Like rain, silence returns again.

A red squirrel scolds us for taking

his acorns, ponies come for fallen

apples, the glen goes back

to the past, New Hampshire is home

for another year to her own.