Watching the Sun Set at the Edge of a K.O.A Outside Otisville, New York

The downpouring stops.
Noising geese take off north from the marine-blue flats
just beyond the fire pits which aren’t more than repurposed steel tractor wheels,
stained with rust where they aren’t charred black, sunk in the same soft mud
that dis-levels many decaying picnic benches. And across the field heaps of RV husks,
teetering and fallen, collect mosses where the paints have run. Once great
RVs with names like Windfall, Flagstaff, or Juniper once lumbered
across America on crag-footed blue highways. Now a cracking host. The brightest stars
are already showing. Somewhere a powerful engine groans. Work is being done.
I am noticing for the first time thick posts driven firm in the mud
giving the wet leys their boundaries. A fog settles in the hills. Red sky drains to gray.
Suddenly there are fireflies.

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