Venus Hangs Like a Beacon

Venus hangs like a beacon next to the lighted ensign flying
in the dark of mid-autumn atop the hill;
the glory of autumn colors of wild irises,
La Jolla bougainvillea and blooming succulents on the slope
are hidden by the dark of night in the southwest corner
of a confused nation that once had so much promise,
now warring amongst
unrepentant, uncaring pockets of who-cares-for-anyone-else-but-me;

i sit, grilling a steak, in a place that should be paradise,
blowing off my thoughts of minds more concerned with
their fear, hate, and childish rock throwing
to contemplate on the falcons,
wonderful birds of prey,
sitting on perches about, including light standards,
waiting for their prey to venture into a certain meal;
the dog comes to my side after chasing the lizards;
i pat her head,
sit back next to the grill;
the waxing gibbous moon smiles on me;
i take a sip of merlot.



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