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a poem by
Terry Boykie
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My Doctor's Place

Whenever I walk along
Watchung Mountain Road
after the January thaw

I see a harrier perched
atop the basalt outcrops
searching the rubble

of country rock and
baked sandstone for
emerging meadow voles

dazed by the low-angle
of the winter sun.
Sad to say, I can’t predict

the future from these
living and frozen
glimmers, but neither

can a god whose
apologists ignore
the Triassic deductions

stripped bare by the
forces of the last
glacier in these parts.

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