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Field Study

by Michael Gullickson

An oak barrel cracked open
in a field of sage grass,
a home to button mice,
song beetles, pollen ants
an occasion of fleas.

A rusted piece of farm equipment
too weathered to identify
sits in the same field, alone.

I step across a broken fence
looking for signs of life
in the weed crowded field,
looking for signs that you were here.

Posted in Poetry

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