The Sound of Something Deconstructing Itself

Drove to Chicago once, thought about a lot of people, tried to write a story, still on my mind, the story, not the people, spent the Saturday in the woods, of a huge city, that I'd never been to, introduce me to your trees here, take me through the rooms here, and the back seats, the back porch, the views, lots of darks, good darks, and I heard the sound of something deconstructing itself, and the house fronts blew in like sails, just facade, fabric, one by one by one by one, and we snapped a photo of the car behind us, stuck in traffic, layers, layered, suns had set, from the cement, and the metal, and the fumes, to the wood, and breeze, and back porch, back porch view, back porch conversation, and hallelujahs, and gut laughs, and memory, and future, and now, and a good now.

Be well.
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(words and photo are original)