Tips of pine boughs sway in the breeze
Viewed through slumped glass
they look like a lazy summer stream.
Are those shapes gray lakes
Resting on the green light
Or are they islands adrift on a green sea?
These mountains
absorb sound
And emit silence.
The rhythm is not regular
It comes
Running out of the bushes
Like Rin Tin Tin
Looking for the Lone Ranger
On the way to a mugging.
Julyish 1981
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