Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Focusing, I

Upon the trail is the day-glo

Of shattered clay, and shotgun-shell

Detritus of a bit more

Blight.  I look about from habit:

It wasn’t this morning or I would have heard

The sounds, thinking of my Walther 22

Against the viciousness that implies.

A siren blares.  Someone is rushing

Someone someplace to die.

How much can I care for something

Roaring past?  I rationalize

That nothing lasts.  The girls only

Concern is rabbits fleeing

Through the underbrush.

I see a watching crow

And try to take its image,

But it launches free too

Quickly for my F Stop

And shutter speed.

It is all like that with

With these images sticking

And everything in between

As vaporous as the dust

Churned up by the girls

Striding across the sand.

The two of them lasting

White-muzzled.  Susan though is

Not as steady as she used to be.

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