Friday, August 05, 2022

Morning Time in the Laurentians

The air's cold on my skin,
The sun is shining bright,
The shimmer on the water may be bugs,
Or a summer breeze, light,

The sough through the trees is releasing rain,
Having fell yesterday,
I can't decifer whose bird call is whose,
Nor how my future debts will all be paid,

The journey ahead is long and winding,
Gravel will shoot from tires,
To buy a coffee made by steady hands,
Available for hire,
But otherwise,
Who knows what they would do,
Assuming society cared for them,
So survival was not a concern, too.

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