That first summer we swam in rapids
wind-churned cataracts in fields of winter wheat
running through endless surf, fields larger than the
confluence of the Nile and Amazon
and as real to us
as anything else we knew, little though that was.
I feel the sky, blue as mountain lakes, close
to my self, still. I feel the roundness of
unbroken plains, the dust in the air
I chased after you through the stalks
in shadow-less noon.
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