No rush, no rush.

On the old dirt road,
all is calm,
all is bright.
A stand of cat-tails recovers from yesterday’s bent,
telling me which way the wind went.
Browning fronds dip down,
drawing degrees of their deaths from the snow.
Nothing here for anyone, really.
Nor for feather, fur, or fin.
Here I stopped for an insistent bladder.
With that taken care of, I turn to go,
but stay instead, for a moment or two.
If my party friends could see me now,
they might say
“there he goes with his mooning daydreams”.
It’s a peculiar time, a pausing time, a settling time.
All that has been, and all that will be
seem to have met at this nexus.
A thing, put off through doubt,
is affirmed, and I nod,
to no one in particular.
From my backseat toolbox, I grab some scissors.
Cat-tails.
She always liked them.
But these are not the pencil ones.
And they are dead.

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