refreshing air

blew in the door and another

bird makes singular calls

of in a tree while I blast out

and down the raceway to arrive

after a roam around

each corner tires squealing

making a fast move

up the road ready to growl

pacing for the wait

and then starting again even faster

than before

there is a finish line yet

it doesn’t exist this close to the

starting gun

Yet each time the window

opens it is a waterfall

of the split second slipping

into the past

About jaybeasley2

a writer, a painter, a poet, a wordsmith
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