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It begins in the rooks, in their rasping.
Before childhood is left undone.
Before bitter nights of burning things.

With a boy, a girl, a new home, a field.
With a ripe imagination.
With a woman and her world of straw.

It begins back when to run was to play.
Grows out of TV, out of games.
Grows out of a wasteland at town’s end.

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