this is the view from out of our kitchen window
there’s the barn with hay piled high to the rafters
those cows, a society of steaming breaths
a great sycamore next to the ancient chicken house,
too well built to be called a coop
its inside walls peeling successive coats of whitewash
and that smell which lingers even after
the twenty years since the last egg was laid.
all this is a memory
a memory evoked by that framed drawing
hanging on the wall beside my chair
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