Jake Lawson

We stoop over clay
to edge back through years,
sediment and curtains
of lake-wash, tangle ourselves
with driftwood and seep into
so many cracks of killdeer tracks.

We come for red, green, milky
flint that laces the echo of stone--
a chiseled heirloom--just to be the first
to hold what was last held
so long ago. 

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