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Poem: The Clouds, Gathering 


The grass drowning
at the bank of the creek—
heavy rains.

Heron, are your legs long enough
to keep your tailfeathers dry?

The empty
fox burrow
turns to mud.

Where have your pups gone,
mama fox?

Bright yellow—
a newborn chick
shivers with dew.

I wonder, do you know
what kind of world you’ve been born into?

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Speaking of...

  • A poem by Nathan Hunt.

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