drive down those twisting lanes

off exit 72, past the mushroom plant

you can smell for miles,

through the trees–summer foliage

blocking signals–music gone static–

and turn where the yellow barn once was.

green-roofed history caved in on itself,

battered by rain and mud,

paint peeling like pruned skin.

we knew it wasn’t safe–firefighter exercise–

history gone up in smoke,

a necessary sacrifice but a scar all the same.

gravel crunches where mud once was,

where cows still wander, escaping barbwire pastures.

creek crossing culvert

passing over water we once splashed through.

and there’s the aisle of grass now

trampledtrimmedconverted,

lined with twig saplings planted with

winter wood chips gathered

from old ridge logging roads and

stripes of yelloworangered spray paint markers.

over the years raw land contained.

vines torn down, burned, trees

razed to the ground, sacrificed in favor of

progress. secret garden, hammock prayer,

dove in March sky now exposed.

Anna Stowe

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