Post Row/e
sometimes I forget that I am a woman.
morning sun returns to the valley
river between thin and silver
a thread stitching forest to range
the curves of oak-dotted hills
swell to embrace the light
girdled by white fence posts
twisted with barbed wire
fields of green and brown and green
crop circles forced into fertility
long pipes stretching out
into rusted standing water
and then I remember.
