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Our Field

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I miss our field, momma.

What took all of Spring to grow was laid bare in the course of last evening, before the first of Summer. The hum of heavy equipment. Tractors so large, they covered much ground.

Grasses, once meters high, systematically fell—exposing the contours of the earth, and a myriad of holes leading somewhere. It is man over nature.

The clover. The wildflowers. None stood a chance. What once gracefully bowed to the wind is now a series of short dry stalks. Felled by metal blades, they share no resemblance to their former selves.

Slashed and bailed, they will sit in the sun only to be hauled someplace far away. It is uncomfortable under foot. I carefully chose my path, following the trail left by tire tracks.

The ruts and furrows remind me. Our deer now have one less place to hide.

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