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The fields begin to shield themselves
The fields begin to shield themselves in some soft metal underfoot as they ripen into hardness. The air quiets. Except for Christmas’ three-week hum, traffic thins. Some life has left the earth, been driven down and in. The metal spreads its silent hymn that sings of hardship, night; of frozen beings, their signals lost; records the broken keen of almost dogs. They spread out as they run for meat. Under the trees their lines bisect the rabbits’ shorter curves. Life joins life: gray fur, brown fur, metallic scent of blood.