Blank face, a vague tracery on the faded, hand-painted plywood sign.
We drive by flooded fields of rice.
Dust kicks up off a rock-strewn dirt road.
An angel's voice sings an ode on public radio.
Then a pledge request airs as the white noon sun
Bakes us, heat rising in waves. The open trunk
Contains a shovel, shotgun, orange vests. They'll
Put on waders, trudge through autumn stalks with the dogs.
He'll tell you the rest over a round of beers a guy sells
From a styrofoam cooler near the canal locks.
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