The Plow

I’ve already fathomed the desert there’s no reason to rethink, I’ve taught her how to use the tracker to plow the dirt because she kept complaining her hands hurt. She yelled “relationships are too much work!” And I silently watched her plow. The rattle of the tracker’s transmission scattered the desert pigeons feeding of the remnant of the rot and we’d sit and listen. The beaks would beat at minimal meat, fighting amongst their ranks on which nothing to keep, this would last for hours, I would stare for minutes, the struggle would lose its power, and then become folly, the birds respond oddly trying to make something from rot, my girl keeps plowing…in the same spot.


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