In the Hinterlands

the mountain hollow’s
yellow meadow

thrumming under another
morning fog

we curl around
our private griefs

before mourning becomes
a form of conformity

recall the headlonging
rush of young buds

the grand flourishes
the common sense we made

invasive weeds freed
from all native constraints

to wander the earth
planting our flags

it’s not easy out
on the edge of civilization

the marching bands
do their best

teams from rival towns
smash into each other

the mascot’s feathered head
rests in his hands

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