Wednesday, July 31, 2019

Firs and the Souls of Firs

Blurred blurr, wasted waste,
The bewildered wilderness,
Most civilized invention,

Lurks inside these creaking firs
That click, groan, and squeal like whales
As the wind pushes through them

And makes loon pond a contest
Of contending patterns of waves.
If you have to speak

Of a horror or a bliss,
It’s tedium you’ll convey.
One loon ululates
Across the shivering bay.

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