Southern Indiana

And the hills roll
as they always have
and somewhere in the woods
that bend and wrap around
those hills the bark splits
from the trunk of a shagbark
hickory and a fox squirrel
drops a patter of cuttings
through crisp oversized leaves
as a boy with a shotgun
on his shoulder cocks ears
and trains eyes for a glimpse
of red fur between the parting
of green and at the edge
of the woods where dried
corn rustles in the breeze
Queen Anne's Lace stands
in jagged profusion
and over these hills
that will always roll
a black chicken hawk
with eyes sharp for
the subtlest gradations
glides in a circle
that will never end

From Somewhere in Southern Indiana
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Copyright Time Being Press, reprinted with permission