Sunday, September 16, 2007

Fox Hole

The woods were the same as our woods in north Georgia

Low cedars and pines. The same clearing rubbed through

With slabs of prehistoric limestone. Our same rock circle,

Our fire pit under low Georgia winter skies. The fox-hole

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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