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Bitter Harvest

By John I. Blair

We have plowed

The wind-tossed prairies

Into crusted clods,

Hacked misty forests

Down to stumpfields,

Polluted sky-fed streams

With rancid runoff,

Poisoned songbirds

Until there was no song,

And slaughtered

All the dark, hot-hearted bison.

What penance is allowed?

2004 John I. Blair  

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