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  • One lamp in the morning.
    Too early for lights across the valley.
    Too early for traffic on the road.
    Alone, these thoughts and I,
    the pen scratching across the page.
    Sounds like a chicken
    kicking back the dusty ground.
    Grumbling and resisting
    as I drag it from line to line.
    Stubborn implement.
    Makes me feel I am raking the page for what it might yield.
    Like I am the beady-eyed bird,
    head cocked,
    ready to snatch up
    what scraps might be revealed,
    some wriggling,
    hidden life.
    Then strut away,
    prize in beak.
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