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Poem: Weekend Walk 

Don't call it nature,
this mown meadow path
around the pond,

easement acres
with dairy silos in the hill creases

Though bobolinks
rise from the grass,
knitting new flight patterns,

we keep to the trail,
ending where we began, at the gravel lot,
nothing unleashed.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Karen Schoemer.


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