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  • Summer begins where the last pole in town ends.

    All the miracles of the modern world are delivered through those wires, and in wires unseen.

    Where the wires end, there exists the chaos of frogs and wild roses.

    The mists rise at sunrise.
    The curtain rises to reveal the spectacle of a single pole.
    Perhaps it will bust into song, along with the birds at their dawn chorus.

    “I was a tree once,” it might tell us.
    “I was once like you are now,” it might tell the forest.

    In the age of wireless the pole is a quaint messenger, one who came late to this town.
    Once a dairy town, it has changed over in this new age.
    The hay is now for horses, but at least the fields are kept.

    Sometimes the pole pretends it is the last pole standing.
    It pretends we are all gone and it is connected to nothing.
    “What are you doing?” the frogs might ask.
    But the wild roses know, and they adorn the pole in summer’s spectacle.
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