A Bull’s Eye for the Bullets, but Mind’s Eye for Beauty

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com



A cold wind. Standing ovation
in the trees — Autumn’s moon-dry rustle of leaf
on leaf on leaf. Thunder
in the chill brick bridge when trains pass
larger than life
overhead, white-hot catenary sparks
sizzling fresh air
with the stink of electric scorch. Then
pin-drop quiet, plump as moss, and moss
universally shock-absorbing all than could never be green
back into greenest
tactile patch-working clumps.

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