August

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In first light,

the distant northbound

bellows of its empty

coal cars. I have heard

prayers like that. The dogs

moan lowly lilting ‘cross a

field of crystalline dew. The

prodigal monsoons, seven

years astray, returning,

swelling the creek, the

garden, and hope for

the harvest. A prompting deep,

spoken clear,

“pay attention”, this

is august, the month of

quiet waiting.

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