Sitting at A Picnic Table in A Park, Writing

I am the naked rock at the bottom of a ditch,

constantly regretting its place in the world.

I am the pine tree celebrating its contact with the wind;

then, looking down miserably, I am the same pine tree when it is alone.

I am the dog running over a slight hill, chasing a squirrel,

barking loudly in a palm grove.

I am the old building it ran past, leaning just off the trail—

broken, defeated, forgotten—

I am the metaphor it has slowly become.

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