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Originally published in Rue Scribe (March 2019)
Ox’s blood on my boots is stainin em. Hair on the ground just thin strands, like straw. Steel wire. That dog’s barkin agin. Lost in them hills. White dog can’t find herself in white snow. Her old nose don’t work. Snow been maskin my scent. Wind been mufflin my whistlin. She’ll catch the smell of meat, that I’m sure of. I’ll cook, and she’ll come on home.
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