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The grounds too hard
to indicate we were here
and a young snowgirl is naming
each cow: Astral, Spearmint,
China, Horseshoe. She's been sledding
down the same bony hill all day, her eyes
steep holes of story, of sky; pauses
in the cold road we've walked
with clouds for breath.
I love the Northeast light, how it rests on things,
on this barn setting into darkness,
on the cows inside, shuffling and pissing.
Her father named the one tagged Bitch
after...