We walk past the blackberry

bushes, to the clearest

brook untouched by men

running free

near "Fairy Glen."

In this silent meadow

the highway is not heard.

We find where

the ponies come to rest

and birth their foal.

Where no one could step

we make a pile of old, brown

bottles, gather broken glass,

bury a discarded container.

Like rain, silence returns again.

A red squirrel scolds us for taking

his acorns, ponies come for fallen

apples, the glen goes back

to the past, New Hampshire is home

for another year to her own.

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