Driving down a county route whose name is spelled two ways,
I glance off to the
left just as
the morning sunshine
s c a t t e r s
into beams between
the pines,
and
I can
see
the
air
--a vision I am sure is not allowed.
It twinkles soft
and smooth
light as a honeycomb
here-not-here
the breathable air
gilded, taking space
rushing past and
gone.
I will never see that miniscule eternity again.
Why am I laughing?
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