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Things Move Away

Away is such a nebulous word,
a direction,
movement towards the
"not here."

I went out for a bike ride
yesterday afternoon
on the washboard roads
a little ways away from my house
just as the sun was racing away.

As I approached a graveyard, I noticed
a small dog in the road snooping about,
maybe a puppy.
It heard my un-oiled wheels and scrambled
away from me, into the tree line.
With difficulty it bent its little body
twisting itself underneath the branches,
going through all sorts of pains
to escape my reach.

There were no houses around.
I took it to be a runaway
So I called out to it
to no effect. I gave up,
rode away.

An hour later, upon my return to
this tract of road, I saw the puppy again,
in the road,
mangled and broken.
An old farm truck had struck it
little noticing its fatal effect
and drove away towards the last rays
of the day's light.

The dog was not quite dead,
but close. I stood there for a while on this quiet road
straddling my bike
as the poor thing squirmed uneasily
still looking distrustful of me, even near death.

Away is anywhere far from here.
Far from the pain so plainly present.
That's the point.

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