Cobbled Country Lane

I sit upon a cobbled country lane just off the highway to Buffalo, New York, where summer’s sunlight bathes me between the leafy trees. A light breeze moves across me before skimming to the lake while I wait for any passerby, any good person to stir my mind reflecting what is, what to do—be lost in daydreams or genuine thought, or talk to myself with emotional vapor till the sun goes down and comfort leaves the land.

A vulture dips past the barbed wire of a pasture and ripples tensely into flight above the willows browsing in the grass where someone’s heifer cries out, startled, calling for its mother atop the knoll where she munches on little green apples while I wait for any passerby, any good person to look upon my face, to reckon me—to calm my eyes from last night’s dreams, to hold me close when I sleep, when the sun goes down again and comfort leaves the land.

A pickup truck rattles past but no one sees me cross-legged where I sit with bruising stones on a country lane, where summer’s sunlight bathes me between the leafy trees, and the afternoon moves across me, descending to awaiting ghosts while I wait for any passerby to tell me my heart isn’t filled with snow or ice; to show me there is a cure for sorrow, there is meaning to life’s poisoned immortelles where the sun goes down and around and down again, and comfort leaves the land forever.

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