Walking

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  • Nature

    Walking

    Walk

    Around here the flicking of a bic

    Illuminates ghoulish faces

    Puffing sweet blue cigar smoke

    That lingers in a cloud around us.

     

    Bull frogs throat their song

    As crickets play violins

    For all who care to listen.

     

    We walk.

    Along a seemingly dead quiet road

    An occasional car thunders by

    Its red tail lights lighting up the night sky.

     

    We stop at the crossroads

    Leashes in hand.

    Careful now

    The road is barely lit

    by the full white moon.

     

    We turn on a one lane country road

    With fields on either side.

    Walking down the center of the road

    We avoid the possibilities of falling in the ditches.

     

    No one walks in the fields at night

    They belong now to coyotes and wild dogs

    Who run beside us in the outer layer of the corn stalks

    Waiting for a fatal miss-step.

     

    Having just passed an old cemetery

    That was once in ruins

    Now cleaned up by an Eagle

    As his service project.

     

    We stop just beyond the cemetery.

    I hand my brother the leash

    And walk to the side of the road

    Right by the white railing of a small bridge.

    I relieve myself.

     

    Taking the leash

    We continue to walk

    Past country homes spread out

    along either side of the road.

     

     

    We are now in the village

    Just a few blocks from where we live

    The coolness of the night

    Has just started to chill us

    To the bareness of our bones

    Just as we reach the front lawn

    Of our home.

     

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    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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    RIP’s Poems (3)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    Walking 0
    Amnesia 0
    Runner 0