quiet a while, or not so
with my footsteps and
those long acres beyond
up, through bare trees and
the dog leading, black
with red around her soft
buckled throat
a deer scull, placed
as an offering, a stone
by a stream imagining
altars, I suppose
probably placed there
by a child or a weathered
bird watcher, because
why not and doesn’t it
seem right to raise the dead
above, and changing
the April sky tugs tomorrow
across the afternoon
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