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We played the common land this evening,

dipped the bumps: the hawthorn pits,
while a buzzard observed our sport
from a noble branch of sloe.
Buzzard reserved her verdict as the aviary ceiling
closed above us, swallowing the stars.
When she had vanished, we strolled
far into the dark, hollow grove
recalling her quiet perceptions.
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Poem and image by me.
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