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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 10, Number 4, December 2016

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Matthew Robb Brown
Fort Wayne, Indiana, USA


Dirt Piles

To a boy who has never seen hills, the dirt piles appear mountains. Green plants are taking over the neglected street construction site. A spinnet of pin cherries nearby, netted with bike paths. Rain water follows runnels cut in the ditch bottom, sings into the storm drain where the street starts. Kids on foot and on bicycles run up and down the dirt pile slopes. They swing like Tarzan in the elm tree beside the ditch and leap down. They have packed the clay on the dirt piles, and sunlight has baked it, mapped it with cracks. The piles are dotted with thistles almost the way his arm is dotted with hairs. Each thistle emerges from an intersection of cracks. He looks down on their constellations from the elm. The kids have trampled the thistles down so they never bloom, but keep unfolding fists of spiny leaves.

Cool dirt pit.
Tunnels, forts
among the roots.

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