I can easily have a big whirl of being

                                                     with the

                                                        surge of crossed 

                                                           lanes of the stucky 

                                                              hissing whisk of afternoon tires,

                                                                 so dogged eternal

                                                Or that reliable combusting rattle

                                                  of compressor for the pogoing 

                                                    shattering jackhammer

                                                      always down a street,

                                                        down a street


                                                   And, yes, with

                                                      the counterpoint –

                                                         the afternoon busy outdoor crimson cloth

                                                           new sweet scone,

                                                               latte and cinnamon,

                                                                wine twinkling


                                                                     and the sprinkled little 

                                                                        silky ethereal golden

                                                                            yellow and green 



                                                                                   so nice, so nice 

                                                      That, too

                                                      I know

                                                   Yet were you around

                                                         some faintly remembered

                                                            summer hour

                                                              when the tendrils of fog

                                                                 were still hovering over the dewy hills 

                                                                     to catch the 


                                                                            cantering flight

                                                                               of the shamelessly 

                                                                                 white feathered 

                                                                                     bald eagle

                                                                                        high gliding 

                                                                                            above a sunrising river?

                                                         That you now know

                                                            will always, always

                                                              rise you 

                                                               from that hard gravity

                                                                 of your

                                                                   too  brick worn

                                                                      feetJack Slocomb