August 16, 2018

Taking a Turn on Sunday Afternoon by D.C. Buschmann

We happened upon a cul-de-sac
where Rose of Sharon thrived,
and tomato plants—silent martyrs
staked and caged—disinvited deer.

Needle-laden branches lined
and bowed to sidewalks,
matadors coaxing us
to discover what lay under—

fallen quills turned brown
covered bare earth
like soft, raw silk
on the shaded mound.

No dog barked; no cat sauntered
or rubbed legs pleading for strokes.
Orange fox squirrels 
chattering and scampering 

from tree to tree
a street over, 
neither spoke 
nor appeared here. 

the slightest trill
amplified, reverberating
through treetops 

—a lone soprano singing all the parts.

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