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6   Walking Boundaries I part the fog, a wet veil against the sun. Stained pink with morning, curtains lift on dew-sparkle. Night weavers hang prisms on crepe myrtle and early-turned dogwoods. The pasture grows waist-high where Queen of the Meadow holds stately sway over the cusp of autumn, witness to nutfall, leaf drop, drone of dirt daubers wrapping spiders in mud brick lairs, spring calves grown summer fat. The fencerows stand strong after August night storms stripped sycamores, lashed my windows with willows. The sun mounts the ridge, boils away mist, blazes bright on summer grown wildest before it dims, cools, curls up for the long night. ...


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