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Enough. It's Late.

Enough. It's late. 


The old thresher now rusts in the tall grass, almost hidden. Shall I haul it away? Even if I did, the spot would remain, imprinted with its heavy form. 


Enough. It's late. 


The old bale elevator sits perched in the weeds like a brown grasshopper. Shall I haul it away? Even if I did, the weeds would remain, overgrown and untidy.


Enough. It's late.


I look out my window and see the light shake of early snow. What will I do this winter when the fields are blanketed? Will I envision Spring without these unsightly hunks of junk?


Enough. It's late.


These broken, rusted things are nostalgic to me. I won't haul them away. Maybe later, someone will.

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