John Dan­vers

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Notes Made Long Ago

Sun and moon­light scat­tered in fur­rows, only red clay re­mem­bers turn­ing blade of plough while iron soon for­gets ca­sual stone

It is here I hear green wood­pecker saw­ing through leaf-drained air while trees raise their chloro­phyll arms to God knows where

We are a mea­sure of this mo­ment here at the ear of twi­light, shad­owed fur­rows heel­ing to the dark

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