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Yucatan Highway
by Wilda Morris

At 120 kilometers per hour
jungle greens streak
by my window. No time
to sort out bush from bush,
tree from tree, no time
to distinguish dark leaves
and tree trunks from shadow.

No time to focus binoculars on a bird,
describe its beak, feathers, feet.
No way to ask the man
walking along the road
What's the name of this flower?

The butterfly has no chance
to land on my finger,
flutter wings, entice me
to follow.



 

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