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Aug 312012
 

by Jenny Morse

 

The stoplights flash their patterns.

Headlights flash shadows.

Two headlights.

Six headlights.

Shadows are the lake’s big sisters.

Relatives of the moon.

The moon makes waves.

Darkness waves in yellows and reds.

The trees are shadows of things like mountains.

The trees are paralyzed giants, stone statues.

The headlights cut down the trees.

Tree cutters cut down dead branches.

They plant grass inside the drip lines.

They follow the stop lights to their side of town.

Lights ripple along the water.

The ducks ripple along the shore.

Their heads tuck under one wing.

Their bodies float in the water.

Their bodies float in the sky.

The park bench is someone’s memory.

All of us will be lost.

Only our names retain us.