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
