Why Stop Here?

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Two tobacco brown rivers slit the soil.

Past the hedges and burrows and scarlet-veined ivy, the land triangulates.

Golden bushels of wheat and grain and pebbled soybeans.

Cash crops. Carcasses.

Larks and teals and red breasted mergansers funnel into a conflux where starlings swirl and trails amalgamate and muddy waters gurgle.

Here, the earth inhales.

Farmers till and golden dust seeps low and thick and leisurely.

A low pressure front arrives and brings a hollow feeling.

Chinked and serrated arrowheads sift to the surface, risen from the grave.

Plumes rise incandescent, hallucinogenic, nitric, looming.

Obscured is the horizon.

To give attention to or summon the will to not; we’re all of us caught in the crossfire.

Mutilated flesh, beneath the comforting and elongated shadows of weeping willows.

Amber waves whoosh ambient, caressed by a ceaseless breeze.

A half smoked cigarette tumbles down a ravine, embers glinting.

Cows graze and huddle, dead eyed, playful, unassuming.

Blood glistens in little rivulets that sweat and fuse with dew on blades of uncut grass.

Sunflowers burst.

Lovers in awe as stars dance and fracture in reflections of spiral eyes; cobalt tails streak ablaze among the oil-sheened vaults of heaven.

Barbs hang dull and oxidized with stiffened spools and clefts of wool glued here and there with viscous serum oozed from prey and predator alike.

Fields burn.

Hear the trembling roar, feel it ripple down the spine —an inner vasoconstriction like tangled snakes in burlap bags suddenly submerged— arterial throb, robust and vital, the firmament reigns on.

Gunshots reverberate amidst a sky of wispy clouds.

Faded stop signs half devoured by rust-riddled holes.

Why stop here?

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