Sunday, July 14, 2013


by Jim Rapp

rushing westward,
streaming over undulating land,
ghosts of the morning
over-swarm the view;
climb the sides of hills,
leap tall buildings and run beyond,
always beyond,
racing to the far horizon;
fearing no terrain they
mark the hollows as though
to claim those spaces
as their rightful home;
strong redoubts against
the burning mid-day sun;

then, no sooner won,
their retreat’s begun;
growing ever shorter hour by hour,
giving ground to coming day,
ceding territory quickly gained
in their hasty dash at dawn,
they lie deathly still at noon-tide,
mere pools of darkness
in a desert of burning light,
waiting for the signal to begin
their evening flight to darkness.

in their shadowless eastern home
they’ll while the night,
hoping dawn’s awakening
will give them life again.

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