Landscape 01 New World

Pressure-born fireclouds of sight.
A dark fading blaze of color
As the retina recharges.
A tiny ringing of hair strands near the ear.

The kite, with the flag of St George for a tail,
Floats a mile above the Appalachian Piedmont.
There is laughter from the porch in the gathering dusk,
They are speaking of Duchamp's love gasoline.

The past is placid, a preparation complete,
The future delightfully indistinct.

Fireflies dance in the valley,
Over the rushes by the stream.
A Mockingbird echoes a Nightingale's song,
In ever more distant variations.

by Stewart McKenzie

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