RECALLING ROBERT FROST

 

 

With evening G & Ts
we will stare
across the creek
at black hills,
white ash remains
cut by cowtrails—
pink phos-chek trim
between blond dry feed
until it rains
                              gray,
until it rains
                              green.

We map the burn,
watch the weather,
hope for ground soft-enough
to drive steel posts
for five barbed strands
of Red Brand

because good fences
make better neighbors
for a long time.

 

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