Another work week is over
and I am driving home along
the highway that twists
because of the cool river,
and the ratio of trees to people
switches almost instantly
and the eels in the river go by
and they talk to the trees I'm sure,
the river joining in, bubbling,
about how they made the curve
that the road must take
and I hear them ask if I am listening
which I am because I know
that my sense of hearing
and every growing thought of mine
are made by the world outside.
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