ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND THIRTY-SECOND DAY OF THE YEAR II

From the highway, beyond

the healing wound of a felled

forest, an unending sound of

cars, a world on the move.

Here, a thinned spring,

inhabited by ghosts, their

voices uncaptured, lost

except to memory, and

the occasional sound of

birds, singing, like they

have for tens of millions

of years. A constant thing

against the hum of wheels

on cracked asphalt, these

brief lives we inhabit into

oblivision's final winter.

14.05.2023

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