Morning on Jones' Meadows
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Flames
splayed across the golden parchment 
of a morning sunbeam,
thrashing like an animal in a trap.

As if it were intent on smothering
the burning blue of the sky,
a massive log puffs
milky clouds of smoke
from within the fire.

Trees call out to each other
across the meadow
in the lilting voices of birds,
and the smell of bacon and coffee
threatens that of pine.

We discuss the dichotomy of the sexes;
the dirty-to-clean labor of women,
the broken-to-fixed endeavor of men.

Meantime, the sunlight ushers
silence unto us,
knocking our shadows
flat and long against the earth.