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The Hour When Solomon Comes

I buried five dogs here in good deep holes,
wrapped them in sheets and old shirts.
When I laid their bodies down, holes turned
to graves and I had both feet in them.
I gentled shovels of dirt across their stiffening bodies.

Morning glories, lavender, mint.
Orange trees, persimmons, figs.
Sun rising slowly over tall trees.
Land falling to the creeks. There
never was a paradise, skeptics say.

Yesterday, on the campus where I work
a young eagle trapped on a power pole keened
and cried. Mockingbirds dived, whirled, darted
again and again. I needed to believe
the eagle cried for someone to save it.
I watched the gray sky north and south.
                                        No one came.

Rick Campbell

The Florida Review

Volume 41 Number 1 2017

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