Naya Blue

We All Know

Stacked cord wood huddles near the front porch.
Those dried bones of once stout trees,
who stood twenty years sentry in their own company.

Tended only by chattering squirrels, and the hunter, his orange cap flaring, alert dog at his side, flushing up partridge among the crunching
shells of beech nuts.

The drumming dance of birds yet hunted,
continues at a distance, under the solemn watch

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