— Dana Crum
Down earth’s dome birds drip
like flecks of paint. The trees—
dots of brown and red, gold and green—
a landscape by Seurat.
Here, at the artists’ colony, my lines
spanned notebooks and exhausted pens.
My life back home—the rude raw caw
of the crow, the leaves like rags in oaks,
the TV on mute so I, with cold pen,
can stoke crumbling images
and not feel so alone—seemed
someone else’s. Now I must step out
of character. The birds like pepper tossed,
I trudge to my blue coupe and leave.
Fog beards mountains. Ahead,
a wind-turbine field. Giants cartwheel.
Do they celebrate my departure or stay?
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