Walking Where the Plows Have Been Turning - Robert Bly
Walking Where the Plows Have Been Turning - Robert Bly stories
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Some intensity of the body came to me at five in the morning. I woke up, I saw the east pale with its excited brood. I slipped from bed, and out the back door, onto the sleek and resigned cottonwood leaves. The horses are out, eating in the ditch . . . I walk down the road toward the west.
Source: cocoacocoacocoa https://www.reddit.com/r/...

Walking Where the Plows Have Been Turning - Robert Bly

by cocoacocoacocoa

Some intensity of the body came to me at five in the morning. I woke up, I saw the east pale with its excited brood.

I slipped from bed, and out the back door, onto the sleek and resigned cottonwood leaves. The horses are out, eating in the ditch . . . I walk down the road toward the west.

I notice a pebble on the road, then a corn-ear lying in the ditchgrass, then an earthbridge into the cornfield.

I walk on it to the backland where the plows turn, the tractor tires have married it, they love it more than the rest, cozy with bare dirt,

the downturned face of the plow that looked at it each round . . .

In the risen sun the earth provides a cornhusk in one place, a cottonwood tree in another, for no apparent reason.

A branch has dropped onto the fence wire, there are eternities near, the body free of its exasperations, ready to see what will happen. There is a humming in my body, it is jealous of no one.

The cricket lays its wings one over the other, a faint whispery sound rises up to its head . . . which it hears . . . and disregards . . . listening for the next sound . . .

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