A Poem

Each field has its falcon,

Or, the other way around, rather—

For peppered wings and barred tails lightly lick

The scarred and overturned earth,

Marred irrevocably by rusted implements.

They appear and are gone again, as if conjured

In some time immemorial by the very land,

By the flaking skull of a bison head—

And who, after all, can own a dream?

Better to let the fenced fields fly

Than to tether their errant hawks in leather,

For each feather is a gift, real or imagined—

And one does well to pass them on.

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