Where the band once stood

It’s length

Can only be determined

By circumstantial circumference,

Divided by a full moon,

And then

Multiplied by

How

Many

Skips

A particular rock will take,

On its trip

Across the pond.

Heaved by the same

Hands that

Sweat at the sight of

Wet cement.

Stable sidewalks,

Entertain the tiniest of traffic.

 Busy red ants mingling in straight lines with songbirds  soaring overhead,

And centipedes filling in the gaps.

Forming very formidable processions,

That shield

The traveling salesman,

Or

A salesman traveling,

From the judgemental eyes of the

Turtles nestled in the shallow

Regions of a considerably

Deep

Lake.

(That could very easily be mistaken as stepping stones.)

In a patch of grass

Near a long ago,

Widowed,

Willow,

 Is where the wonderful weeds grow.

Where the old band once stood.

Where any ordinary

Tramp armed with only

A fishing pole

(And an adaquete wrist)

Can easily part an entire orchestra of

Former dinosaurs,

Without shouting or even

Sharpening his wicked  guillotine.

And this is  especially where

That same tramp,

Or any

Ordinary hero,

Will  always get a

Constant,

Standing ovation

From the  always thankful,

Supporting cast of surrounding trees.

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