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Something Beautiful


by Darryl Price


It's nice to see you, 
but not always. The 
park's hair has gotten 
quite wet, but it still 
manages to look 
beautiful and inviting. 
Anyway, 
I'm out on foot, so 
it doesn't really 
matter. I've been here 

before, in other 
mixed seasons, but it's 
only familiar 
as a strange feeling, 
like the mirrored edge 
of something sharp. This 
really is the best 
way to discover 
what is making all 
those colors pop out

anyway. Long green 
grass blades over small 
celebrating grass. 
Tiny bright ball clumps 
of yellow flowers 
and various brown 
and tan stems. The sky, 
as always, adds its 
own chorus to the 
whole proceedings. I 

guess, in my own way, 
I'm also painting 
a brush stroke of my 
very own as I 
pass. I like that fun 
idea, but it 
quickly fades into 
the overall gray 
background. Ah, there's a 
little bit of sun 

for you, but only 
for a moment. The 
singing rain insists 
this is its parade 
street to command. I 
mean, that's some living 
poetry there that 
you either hear or 
think is nothing more 
than some blowing wind.
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