quaking aspen
the dappled sway
of muttongrass
It's
my tenth birthday and I’m learning to shoot the .22 rifle.
It’s over 100 years
old, handed down from father to son
for three generations, and now to me. Even
though I’m a girl,
Daddy treats me like his worthy heir. “Act serious,” I
whisper
to myself, but I can’t quite contain my grin.
wild strawberries
gleam like pigeon-blood rubies.
. .
stinging nettles
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