Wednesday, February 20, 2008

The Scouts


We moved through the night in silence.
More silent than the lice in our hair.

Army-crawling across a field of brush,
sharp thorns bite with kisses.

Spotlights blast down
searching for us.
Between a forest and an airport
we hide without cowardice.


Positioned against the crying horizon
an upright image shrugged off existence.

As we moved in closer, we could see that
it was not human though its actions were
easily excusable for one. Just
two pieces of wood held together by
nail rust and wind.

The sign sticking out of the ground said:

Natural Grass
Do Not Mow

We sat the at the edge of a potholed highway,
smoked cigarettes and picked at the plants.


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