A pickup dusts past.
A woodpecker stops pounding,
Perhaps having found a grub.
The wind is pulsing,
Although it's barely a wind,
As the dust settles its skirts.
The water is falling.
None of this is happening.
None of it ever happened.
Or it did, then it hadn't.
The observer sits
Listening on a split rock,
But there's no observer there,
Just another kind of air.
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