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M a r g a r e t   Y o u n g




Down the hill where Baird Road crosses
the Vermilion River, after pausing

to admire the green door, Thursday

weighing on your shoulders, you will

be turned by winds of mercy

to race beneath a sky blue as a pilot light

between gold streaks of clouds. On Quarry

Road, elk stand silent behind chain link

smelling the fallen corn, the year fading

like a scar, like tracks in rain.


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