We have places yet
before the plow,
the yellow steel,
for naked grace—
the wild dance
that steps lightly
upon this ground.
Our clumsy dreams
are child’s play,
drunken dumb shows
of cell phone selfies
squinched in squares.
Blessed be the buck
in rut with purpose
beyond the wire.
drycrikjournal 
I don’t know if you got my last post but i hope you are both well and far away from the fires.
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Yes, Sid, just smoke here.
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