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                                for the Webbers

The kind of box wrench a rancher carries
half-inch one end, 9/l6 the other
A common thing for simpler machines
Black with rust, found by a broken seed drill
on Terry’s place,

My neighbour Terry is dead
killed by the wheel
and the ranch dies with him

In morning mist
His son’s voices echo up-valley
Their horses sound wild with grief
They drive steers down to a liner

Bent over an engine
Terry’s wrench in hand
I hear hooves
thundering on a steel deck

The anxious bawl of the cattle
The bitter voices of Terry’s sons
Roll from hill to hill

I keep this piece of steel in memory of him
And one more thing that won’t get buried
is his name. That ridge above his house,
unamed before; now that he’s gone
we call it Terry’s

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