A Way of Living

	Slouching in my seat,
	I gaze out the only unshuttered window
	at the Amish landscape on display
	and as I watch the tips of pink 
	tombstone checker past,

	I ponder whether someday a can of beer 
	will ever not spray as much 
	when slammed into an asphalt road.

	The tight burn in my gut for an answer 
	feels the same as it did ten years past 
	when the explosion of gunfire
	packed its way through Bricker's woods
	like a wool blanket of sound
	and we threw down our ball of red marking yarn,
	retreating back through cracking twigs
	the way we came.

	Later as we ate our sandwiches under the slope of trees,
	I listened to the rain spanking the canopy above
	and felt as safe and content as I would ever be.  

                     
  

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