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On a Hill in Vermont — Lindsey McCormack

On a Hill in Vermont

Lindsey McCormack

The mountains are quiet at this late hour. I lay nestled in them trapped, cradled.

Everything beyond here, beyond this room, may very well not exist. The valley expands too far.

Specs of starlight break, through the night’s pitch-black cloak. Empty streets allow, a universe of constellations.

Noise ceased to exist here a long time ago; leaving coyotes occasional howels, ringing through the air, bouncing between mountains.

Senses are lost in these hours, sometimes we drive to regain them, double-checking that the world still exists, as the car bounces over aged roads.

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