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a summer sunday,
I lie on the cool mown grass,
I’m eight or maybe nine
old growth firs
stretch above, their
dark thick needles
break the deep sky
thinking of infinity,
no church pews,
no family ritual
just my back to the earth
my face to the sky
fingering the bird count
above me
my father
has taught me
all their names
climbing the hill to home
I do a superman
run, jump, and hop,
just in case
now
I can really fly
Catherine Eaton Skinner
2009