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Eastern Shore

By Elizabeth Follin-Jones / January 27, 1986



No one in the streets though I drive through a hundred times. Some days the air so heavy dust won't rise They are washing feathers at the chicken plant or napping behind tasseled shades on a rosewood sofa until I leave. Then someone will open the screened kitchen door, walk to the market for apples, fire up a lawnmower. The mailboxes read Peary, Arthur, Riesick, Worth, none familiar yet I am back where time moved like the weighted clock in our hall, where I watched this lattice of leaves at my window before the others unfolded their arms from sleep.

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