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Afield at what feels like
the end of an era
an excitement of bees
chants in the goldenrod
they give me some peace
in a mistral wind
that carries the clash of the road
at the clamorous finish
of the final iron age
a corporate desperation
that leaves me small and weak
but i can stand quite still
and i can hear the bees
louder for now than the trucks
hauling waste behind the trees
and i can write the thrill.
