bolsa chica reserve

in poetry •  7 years ago 

Foot prints on path,
The brush blows
In their stages of life
Some are rich and green,
But mostly brown
The ecological reserve
Is gated with rust
The roar of traffic
Stands along the marsh
On this wooden bench
The honks are louder
While chirps are dim
As they fall with the sun
A runner passes me
But she looks down

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