The silhouette of heavy machinery at twilight

He was mine through a country song,
she said, and I knew she meant the dance
in winter hay mostly covered in snow.

Heaving and hoeing in shadow
a harvest not innocent or wicked,
sort of alive and in flux, not like a bruise
but rather a soft flowing mercy.
Toiling atop a mound of pipe,
they make a merry windfall.

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