where the writers are
bridge

 

blanket grey fog
water between the limbs
mossy green
winding grades sweeping tree lines power lines fishing lines
reel them in. chew them up. spit them out open mouths
open fields, poppy splats of color
pools of paint
water, pigment take a
break
take a number take a deep,
breathe sweet air sweet pea
vines up brick red rocks sunset chalk pastels good enough to eat me
uptown, small town, town and country