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Spanish Birch


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Spanish birch shimmer through the leaves
The trees - far apart in a sedate uniformity.
Early dusk, and the light is fading,
But lingering around the light
Tree trunks where the grass is soft
And the yellow green leaves are heart round.

The winding road past some farms
And Picasso red earth exposed in
The hilltops; the road is a narrow
Two lane.

I travel fast, much beyond the posted
100 and away from the serene presence
That the Romans bestowed upon the horizon
The vast white-stoned aqueduct
Its silhouette upon the landscape of time and timelessness -
Pure function for them; pure form for us
Beautiful emptiness and a stretch of
The road without end or destination.

Then the road turns and amongst the
Birch trees I see a Police car, then another.
Some people are standing about.
I slow down and listen to the
Reverb of the car exhaust, as I let the car coast.
Then a twisted form of a white and red
Motorcycle is exposed amongst the trees.
The policemen are standing about
And someone is lying on the ground.
Then two men pull a white sheet
Over the body of the rider.

A speeding ambulance whirls
Past me a few miles down the road
And I wonder if the paramedics already know.
I keep my eyes on the road
And try to imagine what the rider
Felt just a few moments before he knew;
Before that last turn came up
So fast from out of the
Luminous forest of slender and tall
Spanish birch.

 

Michael Stoic 
October, 2000


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