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In The Brush
I stand in the field where I work,
The wheat is soft against my skin
I clasp a strand of that barely
in my hand,
but when I open my clenched fist
it is nothing but dust.
A voice says,
“Hide in the brush by the river, down in the brush by the river.”
I look down at my clumsily large feet,
mice scamper around them,
I reach down and catch one,
so small, it squirms, writhing violently
in my hand,
I don't want to hurt it
but a moment later it is still.
A voice says,
“Hide in the brush by the river, down in the brush by the river.”
I look across the field where I work,
I see a pretty face skipping toward me,
Beautiful, soft curls bouncing around it,
She stops just feet from me,
so I clasp that natural silk
in my hand,
but a look of shock runs across her visage
and she disappears amongst the wheat.
A voice says,
“Hide in the brush by the river, down in the brush by the river.”
I crouch in the brush by the river,
it scratches roughly into my skin.
I see my safety, my friend-
I feel smooth, cold metal-
“I hid in the brush by the river, I stayed in the brush by the river.”
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