The pothole makes a lake bed
oval in the gray pavement.
It's filled with brown, dried
bits of pine needles
and islands of bark and eucalyptus seeds.
Mist thickens to the West,
a dishwater-logged cotton batting
draped over the canopy
(dark green, the hunter's hue.)
The white sun sings yellow
and blows sand off the hilltop.
Four poplars in a row to my left
susurrate, but keep their secrets from me.
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