Maybe rain. Different roads hurt different feet differently. Up the hill, through a stand of pine, into the distance blurred by mist.
Eternity is an electric thread about which we are wound and whose humming thrums in us while sleeping or awake. A single flower – aster perhaps? - by the railroad tracks, limpid in brown shadows cast by trains that will never move again. Detritus.
The yellow bells of the squash plants, bees waking up. On the side of the road, a fox. At night, walkers with flashlights stop to catch up with one another.
Descendant willow trees. The dogs circle back through the pasture, tongues hanging like bacon out the sides of their mouths. A prayer with out beginning or end.
What did she say that about forever? The composition of eternity a matter of nows. Sunflowers struggling in the shadow of squash plant leaves as large as infant elephant ears.
Pissing in the front yard for what seemed an eternity in starlight a thousand years old or more. She was recently divorced and her ex was a minister. We played word games and it passed for enlightenment as it so often does.
Writing when I ought not yields a satisfying result. Have I asked yet may I borrow your shoes?
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