Brown circles on the grass mark the place of landing.
Flat and trodden down where they milled around.
They come at night, stay a while,
then disappear as if they had never been.
Leaving the brown circles of dead grass
and the smell of fuel hanging in the air,
testament to them being here.
They don’t look odd, they look and sound like us,
dress like us, talk like us.
I wonder where they came from.
I wonder where they will be going next.
They’ll be back next summer.
When the fair comes to town.
© joseph r mason 2020
Success! You're on the list.
Whoops! There was an error and we couldn't process your subscription. Please reload the page and try again.
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
You must be logged in to post a comment.