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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