Sunset. Contrail.

A cold day, the good kind,

on a road of hard-packed snow

a couple stops short of icy.

I’m walking without the dogs,

just my breath in little puffs

and the crows and their allies.

Sunset is a few minutes later

already, still south of west,

a pale-orange apricot

glimpsed through the wind row

of dark-green red pines

that bisect the old field

into east and west, divided

into two like you and I.

My fingers are cold now

from taking photos, gloveless.

I am emailing you two scenes,

landscapes without people, and

the subject line reads: Sunset. Contrail.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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