The hollow remains unphotographed.
Memory, not landscape, frames it—
a road cleaving winter in two,
children laughing while gravity
negotiated its own terms.
Neighbors spoke without flourish.
Their kindness was practical,
never advertised, always assumed.
You could leave your grief
on the porch overnight;
someone would tuck it in
and leave bread beside it
by morning.
Coal knew every surname
but never asked for praise.
It shaped the valley,
not into...
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