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Fields open through blood, calloused hands, wood grips, and sweat. Just like it was when I left.

POETRY

N I C H E

Old farmers look like scare crows draped with skin. Gaunt and hollow. Their eyes move with the wind, hungry and dusty. When trucks pass dust hangs in the air with nowhere to go. I was young here in the creek bed where my hands took the light, cupped it in a pool of water. Times when the ground froze solid,

IVING U P, A R BY JAMES DUNLAP

and couldn’t be split with a plow. acres burnt, swallowed in flames from a flicked cigarette. Nights coon hunting, lantern light burning a hole in the darkness filled woods. The haunting howls of hounds. I counted the days until I got to leave and left as well anyone could. But now, here in the wind, the open sun, and the forgotten, overgrown fields, I see everything is beautiful and nothing matters. 39

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Niche Magazine No. 1  

Niche is an online literary magazine that was designed to be limitless. It aims to provide a place where an array of voices, from experimen...

Niche Magazine No. 1  

Niche is an online literary magazine that was designed to be limitless. It aims to provide a place where an array of voices, from experimen...

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