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Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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November 1986


by Jesse Sensibar




            Gray and sharp and clean like new cold-rolled steel. Gray and brown brick-red and tan. I was born on a day like this. On a day we honor those who have killed and those who died. A day on which it is enough to have simply survived, even if for no other reasons than dumb luck and fate.

            The field is full of tall uncut wild grass turned tan from summer-green by the first hard frost. In the lifetime of my memory this field has grown smaller and more cluttered with homesteading bushes and saplings. The dense swampwoods of oak, maple, and poplar which crowd round it on three sides have claimed the open space and sunlight of the field as their own.

            The rusted bones of old farm equipment have retired in the middle of the fields they worked. Slowly being repossessed by the same earth from which they created a comfortable way of life but only managed to rip, tear, and drag a painful and joint stiffening existence. All of it abandoned, left out there to be noticed. A monument, or perhaps a warning, to anyone foolish enough to think that this field of rock and sand covered with a thin layer of topsoil could ever be coaxed into producing.