A few late midges rise and drop
backlit by the low bristling sun,
my cap tipped against it
as I read on the hilltop, looking
to know I am not alone, face hot
back cold, one crow shouting
away an owl above the bare
massed crowns, a curtain
of gold lifting in their tops,
the small dogwood her teachers
planted and her brother
replanted here when the board closed the school still holds its leaves,
its ruddy branches draped with spider lines shining in sunset,
its shadow lengthening over my boots, rising up my pant legs,
engulfing me.
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