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May 2018
A line as slow
and undulating as the Tongue
marks the horizon. Last summer's
fireline shadows the jaw
of the sandstone ridge.

Broken shards of hand-napped
tools litter the path. Sun drops,
and bison-dust rises
across the plain. One crystal tear
slides down the cheek of sky.

Nighthawk shrieks, and diving,
takes his prey. The Tongue laps
far below, ripples over pebbles
a song to soothe water monsters
who take us after dark.
Mary Groom-Hall
Written by
Mary Groom-Hall
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