Slow

Drive slow in the early Autumn, Its past noon in the sun’s late gold light, Driven slow catching up with an Iman man grooving out to his tunes, dancing outside the old Stanley Street butcher’s store, His hair, beard and headphones paint stark as snow on a headland above a deep ocean, in this town where traffic moves, rushing by and slow trains roll, rumble through this center of town.

In a few moments, two people sit on the grassy hill by the ol’meeting place tree, Catching up deep in conversation on that grassy hill under Autumn’s gold, while the drive drives slow to where tintop boxes go rushing by, skipping across the top of crushed basalt and mac, gleaning a chance to evade man made amber and red, faster and faster they go until that’s it, No more.,.

Town is long behind now, a winding road is all that carries now the drive slow, walking away from that Autumn gold light, passing between green stands of grass sweeping in a wind, their waves rising and falling with brown gold seed heads… and before long across the next rise, rolling green grassy hills and a sea where the offshore breezes bluster and tell of stories they once heard and feel free to share. So here I sit with a set sun at the end of a drive slow road somewhere between sea and winds.

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