Cold, dark clouds skid past maturing crops, lone fishermen,
And empty docks. The “F” word dominates the forecast nights, As we rescue summer fruit in fleeting bites; Last minute summer rites. What hoary remnants will we catch As we search the morning garden patch?
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Gene R. StarkA teacher, farmer, trapper, and greenhouse grower. He writes about the outdoors and the people and culture of rural America.. Archives
February 2022
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