Walk the rails under a high blue sky. Find the sag in the leaning fence, and step--carefully--over rusted wire. Follow a peninsula of blond grasses through a lake of loam, and come, at last, to the timber's edge where gray branches trace the sky and rose hips curl near purple canes.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Fear Is
not always the stiff, dry tongue or the vaguely ill stomach; not always the singing nerves or the short breaths or the sharp, split-second readiness for whatever must be done.
Sometimes, it is only the shadow you always half expect.
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