Words in speeches echo, get
carried off in impatient air--
dozens of different scripts quietly
running, writing under square caps--
blue and white gowns over colors of
souls,
tiger lilies for her, confetti and
platitudes,
and the names called hang briefly and
they amble, saunter, swagger, sidle
across the ordinary grass as if it were
a high-wire or runway or pit of coals
as the ice-cream truck's song fades in
and out
like childhood itself carried on the
air
and the sun sinks slowly and fate
smiles today
as dark clouds roll south and thin
wispy
fingers overhead reach eastward,
stretching
the sky as the sun is pulled down and
away
beyond the plains and the purple rays
reach over hundreds of watts of smiles
on the darkening field and some are
lit within, radiating outward before
breaking rank, absorbed by the crowd--
little halos of light grab moments of
time
to be seen again as they grow
into what some already know
and fill out shapes and outlines made
today
on the island of grass inside the track
and the restless sky is pulling, moving
overhead,
urging us all on into a sweet firefly
night
as headlights find ways out and home
to never precisely return again.
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