Following the river to your home
You show me the shed
In which your brothers hid arrowheads
and scared you with stories of Indians
your fathers tractor sits blank
next to the barn
and I ponder his whereabouts
I fail at convincing you that the fog is preventing my departure
And scam a few more moments
In which
you pick cockle burs from my hair
o so subtlety
handing me each one
as if to show me the trouble I had gotten into
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