on a winter evening, line of cars tethered by the sounds
of our rumbling motors.
A brown marsh rabbit noses in the roadside grass
cut away monthly by orange riding mowers
from the tufted expanse of Spartina.
White egret perched in a nearby hammock of cedars,
quiet inquisitor of water, mud minnows and tadpoles,
narrow throat speechless, shoulders tensed with stillness.
Up ahead, hidden by the rising arch of a channel bridge,
EMTs pull the injured from a three-car pileup, life
still or trembling in their hands.
Two cars back, rap music pounds the frame of a powder
blue Chevy, as, in my rearview, the sun gives a blood kiss
goodbye to sky and tidal marsh.
Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. He is the author of New World Poems (Alien Buddha Press, 2020). His poems have appeared in Willawaw Journal, Canary, The New Verse News, Red Eft Review, and Anti-Heroin Chic, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
of our rumbling motors.
A brown marsh rabbit noses in the roadside grass
cut away monthly by orange riding mowers
from the tufted expanse of Spartina.
White egret perched in a nearby hammock of cedars,
quiet inquisitor of water, mud minnows and tadpoles,
narrow throat speechless, shoulders tensed with stillness.
Up ahead, hidden by the rising arch of a channel bridge,
EMTs pull the injured from a three-car pileup, life
still or trembling in their hands.
Two cars back, rap music pounds the frame of a powder
blue Chevy, as, in my rearview, the sun gives a blood kiss
goodbye to sky and tidal marsh.
Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. He is the author of New World Poems (Alien Buddha Press, 2020). His poems have appeared in Willawaw Journal, Canary, The New Verse News, Red Eft Review, and Anti-Heroin Chic, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
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