The woods were the same as our woods in north
Low cedars and pines. The same clearing rubbed through
With slabs of prehistoric limestone. Our same rock circle,
Our fire pit under low
Was still there, etched under a stand of raw cedars. I stumbled, I fell
Into the hole. It was light and tall, egg-shaped like the inside of a
Wasper’s nest. The red clay walls were lined to the ceiling with
Silent children. Applied there as if by some massive mud dauber.
And I think I recognized them.
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