written by: Kevin Taylor
A red-winged blackbird set, watching me,
his fence post newly staked, bark on, topside down.
At arm’s length, rusty fence pliers bounce along a span of wire.
“One. Two. Three. Hemlocks, see, twist over time—”
that’s Cunningham’s voice, “stretches the wire.
Set one post-wrong-way-to and it’ll sag right there.”
Come a day I recall Seamus Heaney
and with newfound pride—my own name
and that red-winged blackbird there,
down Vernon River way.
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