Cuckoo.

 

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Lesions of lichened stone rain these fields. I lie in a hollow, a shallow scrape of earth bedded in clover and buttercups and the hill holds me still. Cow bells, chainsaws, dogs barking, church bells dawdle on the warm breeze. A pair of orange butterflies tumble . I hold in my hand a piece of lead glazed pot, turned green in the firing. A cuckoo calls my name.

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