Old Blackwood Farm

Leaves catch on field stalks
And broken fence, some grackles
Crying where the road ends.

Leaves, cobwebs, feathers,
Caught in the gutters, light wind
Blows fog through the dusk.

The fence barbs rusted;
Trees’ skeletal silhouettes
Inch toward the wellhead.

Soil leached from sun—
Vultures surround the dead cow
Laid out on bank mud

Wind-swept sticks rustling
With leaves on the walk; clear streaks
Of the last of dusk.

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