the sidewalk proceeds
from my door, pointing
my feet directly toward my aim.
But seventy paces are turned aside
by the black river
with speeding rapids driving past
in a swift stream of unfordable Fords
whose chattering wheels rage
a rushing gush of hurried hum.
My progress abridged, I'm driven
to wending until bending
expectations bridge the river over me
at the water's edge.
From the coarse chorus of droning
intoned by rolling
directed by the directness honed by busyness,
my course diverges from urgency
as seventy paces find space
away from bustle near the rustle
of tree branches and choirs of geese
sounding an antiphon of the peace
enjoyed in day's last rays
on a sea of grass.
[September 25, 2014]
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