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Jul 2022
It's summertime down here,
wind rippling through livestock
and laundry hung air.
Though the evenings have been
particularly heavy
with flash flooding
this past week or so.

Each morning I rise earlier and
earlier. Mending fallen fenceline
and digging drainage for the chicken coops
until the horizon light inevitably fades
to a dusted nothingness.
Without street lamps
anything past dusk is too rigidly dark
for much else beyond the campfire's edge.

This is likely the most at home
I’ll feel anywhere
since I gave up
pretending you're ok.

So I spend the evenings listening
to the frogs dancing
in the creosote scented rain,
hoping you'll find a way
to get ahold of me
if you change your mind
about me
letting go
of you.
Rollie Rathburn
Written by
Rollie Rathburn  Arizona
(Arizona)   
167
 
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