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She loved the kiln of afternoon, the field bristling

With crickets, the yellow dust blowing up from the road.
I do not think the soul flies heavenward.

Oak and words and jets, our noise goes with us when we go,

A spin of midges at our heads, birds across a pool of red,

Stem and ridge and light; let what the summer says be said.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved