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The Rock
January 16, 2009
Summers when there was no wind
And the clouds were dry tatters
You went up to the rock.
Feet would sink six inches
In termite eaten stumps
When you ran up the hill to the rock.
The grass would whip your shoulders
Handholds fell away
Dirt and dryness in your lungs
Sweat and pebbles in your hair
At the top of the hill
There would always be the rock.
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