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Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Featured Gem

On a slow noon Saturday, the pioneers remain
buried. A dented, turquoise Windstar
crawls up the half-circle

needle and gravel driveway.  The Witnesses
are recruiting, but first we’ll talk

hunting, the upward and onward
of trekking Mogollon trails, of blinds
and shallow hiding, masking our scents.

Ruefully, we’ll speak of the fire-ravaged
bark-beetle pine forest, which brings us back
to why he’s here: to dispel

my notions of Hell, to speak
of lions and lambs sitting
at evening tea, reminiscing

about the old days of chase. In this
new earth the rock lizards will cradle
quail eggs, nod gently and whisper

the over and under of reclaiming the bounty
of lost tails in a one-off light.

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