small(holding)
crab-apple wine
the dance floor dad built
in the orchard
the scent of hay
wafts over our pasture . . .
we breathe deeply
wheat gum
our laugh lines etched
with dust
a slice of moon
dangles from the auger . . .
rusty combine
barren fields
the scattered bones
of our farm
the jangle
of a tin roof leaving home . . .
desolate prairie
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