walking under the trees

hearing the sighs of leaves

wondering on this feeling of sad

then remembering

this evocation

of my campsite under trees

three months in a tent

up in the morning

riding my Harley into the city

commuter fighting traffic

to work with people

who would not could not

talk to me

for some imagined sin

they never verbalised explained

had no need to hear me out for truth

giving the cold shoulder

silent treatment

from some inner higher moral ground

they paid me off eventually

& we were glad

to see the back of each other

I rarely think of them

& I’m guessing that’s mutual

except for now as I hear the wind

rustling sighing through the trees

passing through leaving no trace

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