Faster, the rider willed, the rushing air not yet in his nostrils. Faster, he spoke aloud, the mail won't deliver by itself. Faster, the cheat grass blew, leaning, pointed to the east, against them. Faster still, into the dusk, the coming change of horses, soon enough. Faster, nearly finished, can't break off to rest, until then. Stop! He has arrived, the next rider grabs the bag and is off...
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
January 2021
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