Time hurries on

There are bays dancing in the

Harsh-lit dust,

And lightning bugs on the air

Darting; in and out, and in

Of existence; elusive

Hardly there.

Yet a whinney pierces the dusk,

And the tin-hollow voice

On the loudspeaker drones,

But none pay her any heed.

And the wind billows in

The oaks and elms; stirring

With the dust, the smells of

Manure and sawdust;

Onions and paint;

As rural outposts yield

To suburban meccas

Bright and cheery; full of

Growth and promise and small

Children; so that everyone has someone

To play with.

And the farms fold;

The stables steal away

To tarry towns;

Yet, nothing fazes the fairgrounds,

The one stubborn relic

Of simpler times and hazy nights

Where the fireflies shimmer

At sundown;

And will not scare.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Literary allusion accredited to Robert Lowell's "Skunk Hour," copyright 1959.

Written in summer, 2005.

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