
White sky,
purple frigates crash
into foothill silhouettes—
some slip behind,
compass heading east
trailing a damp cold front.
Headlights crawl
up the road, spotlight
searches sycamores
to a heavy bass beat
for something to kill,
something to eat.

White sky,
purple frigates crash
into foothill silhouettes—
some slip behind,
compass heading east
trailing a damp cold front.
Headlights crawl
up the road, spotlight
searches sycamores
to a heavy bass beat
for something to kill,
something to eat.
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What a wonderful sight, John, and a wonderful poem to go with it!
janet
LikeLiked by 1 person