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Returned after three years to the lower field, I circle

the rock-cluster island once more, searching the tall

grass for the square indentation of earth

 

large enough to hold a child or a litter of coyote pups

found once, twenty years ago, and never again

maybe swallowed by the grass now, filled in by slow shifting soil

 

Another buried fragment of my childhood. But here the buttercups

spread yellow between the stones, as I remember, and the dead

oak still holds court, stooping beneath its twiggy crown.

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