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The Black Oak 

You are my black oak,
Quircus kelloggii,
mossy and dark and old.

I remember when we
pressed our hands
against the soft dark earth
at the base of a tree,
the warm depression
where a fisher had slept.
We were thirty yards away
when he woke and fled,
a soft, swift crashing sound
so quickly gone.

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Amy Fontaine

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