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The Hills hold much to be discovered

red tile roofs poke up from trees in the valleys

a lone train track leading nowhere snakes by the windy road

branches hang low

shading my window

peaks behind fade in and out

and everywhere else

there is rich green

field patches

from grains to pines to bushes to low growing grass

a clump of white hats dancing in rows of stalks

an intersection

a bar

a general store

a café

or two.

A crumbling statue of a comrade holding his rifle

wearing a miner’s hat.

But mostly what look like peaceful homes

either white or red brick

holding steady against a gentle breeze

and here I am

wondering

if anyone here has heard of Duke,

of the bread baked,

the children raised,

and the whole lives lived

Inside and out

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