Even if the sky were mediocre it would be more chivalrous than I.
Me, the gatherer of plastic goods…
the collector of false idols.
My well traveled gifts are malignant.
But the clumping and crinkling of an autumn tree requires the best of me.
There in the rolling, ripples of a Pemigewasset river, a narrative to be retrieved.
Here in a forlorn field of dreams…a mystery.
Set against a leaning, lecturing oak…only intrigue.