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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


I can really fly


Catherine Eaton Skinner