Seeing distance through near things

There is a stamp of orange sky
Over the Olympic Mountains
The last slice of sunrise
Before a new storm slides in.
Black forest ridge
Bare trees arching over pavement
Shoes strung from telephone wires
Raindrops patting my shirt
A darker color blue.

My cloud of breath.

All of this internal static —
Van de Graaff snaps and pops.
Near things divert my attention
From that glimpse of sun
As I travel this long corridor.

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