by Jane Lin

The prairie gives way to rushes the way leather
takes on water at the edges, a creeping
that darkens the knotted clumps
below the feathery surface of grass.
A thing fashioned true remains true
when tended. The perfection of a Song
Sparrow, the reach of its tail like a piston
pumping in the marsh. From a high stalk
the quivering trills pebble our bowed heads.


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