The Fifth of July
If last night was a chaotic fugue of sounds and sights,
This quiet Sunday a.m.
Is a melodic hymn to the lake, trees, and sky,
A beatitude in silver, green, and creamy blue.
Gone are the phosphorescent girandoles
That flickered, for hours, like lightning in a violent storm,
Around all ten miles of Lake Nebagamon's shoreline,
After the village's fireworks drifted into afterglow.
Now, the residents of this land are home,
Bathed by a deeply serene sleep and forgetting,
As though no celebrations of freedom ever occurred.
Timelessness has returned to it normal pace.
07/05/09 - (1)
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