The Traveling Poem

Whistling winds carry me down the street,
away from the hustle and bustle of the printing press.
No one notices one missing page, one lonely poem.
Darting between living, ebbing bodies, no one notices.
Emerging onto South Main Street, I’m pulled left then
ripped right into the screams of exhaust-scented traffic.
I soar above the faces, ruddy and wrapped in scarves.
No one notices as I graze a steeple peak.
Giggling school children are heard high above the cross.
A blackbird greets me on my wind-path with a jubilant shrill.
Lower then higher again do I travel on the back of autumn.
Oranges and reds swoosh past me on their own journeys, and
no one notices as we dance our little wind-dance.
Eastern breezes send me higher, wandering alone.
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