Early morning, deep
voice of sun sounding
in the bronze, echo
of the hands’ slow spiral.
Across the field a stone
barn marks a rest,
legacy of sweat, unseen
river shimmering through
the long grass. To move
into such space is to
approach England, to sense
loss in the woods’ low growl,
undecipherable rhythm
of wind sheared clean
by branches. Overhead,
a goshawk drifts, stray
mark entering the landscape
and so, the body, dark
ink thrashing against
the back of the eye.
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