dark
and not much to see . . .
rain draining and
scattering the headlights
useless against this wet road . . .
just the eerie appearance
of a tiny white hand . . .
the end of a broken branch
sleeved in bark . . .
pointing the way home
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I am waiting for you. Where do you wait? In Florida with retirees? South along the Gulf of Mexico? All the way home to sunny Mexico? Is anyo...
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