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Fallow
How it climbs,
 The tree, above the fallow field
 Where once a farmer plowed 
 Abundant lands.
 How high
 The long dead branches
 Stretch to meet the sky.
 It's singed trunk
 Scarred white on the side
 Where once a farmhouse stood.
 Now a pile of ash
 And timbers lay,
 Scattered at the foot 
 Of a crumpled barn,
 Half ash itself.
 A bird,
 A tiny swallow,
 Alights on the topmost branch of the tree
 Singing of what once was,
 But only the wind is left to here.
 The rest is gone,
 Taken late one winter's night
 In an accident,
 A sudden burst of flame.

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