Bound corn sits rigid and quiet in fields, feigning indifference to confinement. Under shelter, a black crow peers outward awaiting flight at the end of rain. _________________ We stand with the years composing autumn, eyes stretched across fields and time, trying to memorize the shape and feel of all that went before. Most dreams have changed shape to fall away, innards to ashes - our small histories set in layers of soap, old wood and earth embedded beneath uneven nails. By sun and fire, we still tend the things that must be done to soothe and keep life's insistencies, working bits of time into braided rawhide bands held between the fingers of each hand. With no pattern, we lay one against another and another, working fingerprints deep into a single plaiting. Copyright © Anne Fraser
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