The Rock

January 16, 2009
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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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