[33] at Marietta one day in June, John P. Kristofco

We just came on the bridge,
as much in West Virginia as Ohio;
the day deciding where it was,
the sun, the flutter in the trees,
the wind
that whisked the bird into the semi’s grille
where it was always meant to be.
It dropped behind
the diesel’s smoky wake
and fell before us like a leaf,
flapping on the road,
flailing in its autonomic war,
twitching with whatever sense remained
until the reason for the bridge was gone
like music left behind, exhaust,
the point where present
turns to past,
Marrietta and the river
in the mirror.

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