for Wendell Berry I see the trees you’ve seen and known poised in mute witness the baled hay hunched like insatiable livestock gnawing its way back to the earth the river muttering madly its secrets swallowed under the highway you’ve seen the paths I see between furrows turning the soil scattering seeds your footing secure as the ground gives way and stood here nights listening to the rain its liquid tongues falling into silence into life I strain to hear it the rain thudding gently against the window as the bus plummets onward converting your land to a slow motion movie and I lean back a moment into sterile comfort nylon aluminum glass before trying again to see my reflection across your beloved fields

Articles by Harry Newman

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