6.23

when I turn off the radio

and watch the switch grass

blow across the yard, hiding

the pond beyond it from my sight

and watch a small squirrel move from

right to left across gaps of tree limb that

would leave me

shaking

when I stop

to listen and hear,

and feel the world as it

is without my man-made

noises, I realize what a visitor

I am, in the space I presumptuously

call

my yard.

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