Bear Creek's Bazaar

by Giovanna MacKenna, 3.24am March 10th

Quietly, in the low hush of a long dusk
the flower heads on Martin’s field begin to sway.
A pool of air is stirring the once-still trees,
drawing their shadows to dance,
spinning tall grasses into circles that bend and flatten,
pressing stems to ground.

Bear Creek’s houses ring this burl of warm wind,
gazing inwards from their stillness, the gentle 
suck of pressure bringing the town’s faces
to gaze through glass,
eyes raised to the burn-streaked sky,
the last light tipping the edges of the field’s furore,
sound rising as branches clash and animals run.

Just when the watchers feel they cannot stand their stillness,
must move towards the humming rush,
there comes a falling
a billow 
of candy stripes and hand-cranked music.
Between blinks, the circus comes to town.

 

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