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62 Dream of Two Fields in Evening Rain Boulders may not hum, or limbs bend brushing themselves where dust has hung; grass cannot lean toward last light where clouds rubbed the sun away. But birds wait in trees, their eyes on me as I approach the open center. When a late flock rushes over, only my shoulders quicken. Small gems on grass and stem won’t wink as rain increases. Beneath the sod of two fields, directions change: fetid leaves, many earthworms, coiled snails, too far apart to count, a knot of roots and twigs past untying, layers of the old dreams. A train hugs itself up hill. Rain takes all night, gliding, one field to the other. ...

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