Beyond the trees
In the blue reach
Across the strait,
To the jutting promontory
And the rise
Of distant mountains
We find only half the story
For the near pines exude
Pungent alkaloid sap
And the ratchets
Of cicadas
Percuss in the needle canopy,
And the air
Holds the salt sweat
Of a seaborne breeze
And the moist weight
Of ozone’s far flung memory.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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