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The Shearer
The shearer’s oilstone rides the blade’s silver edge.
There is a swish as one blade closes over the other.
It is a fine tool honed.
He wears...
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The Waiting Room
Chairs creak, restless and stiff,
old man in tweed mutters prayers, beads clicking
against rough fingers—years worn thin by faith.
A mother huddles over a sick child,
eyes...
