(Revised 10.6.16)
In the alleyway
cool breezes sleeping chickens
under ancient trees.
I linger. It’s noon.
They say smoke still hangs over
the derailed oil train
in the Gorge but no
crude stains the Columbia.
Fortune smiled they say.
No wind-whipped flames fill
the space carved from the Cascades
by Ice-Age meltdowns.
Sighs in the tree tops
say signs. To be good this life
needs many virtues.
Metaxyturn Diaries 