An abandoned parachute
Tangled in the edge of the forest
once was a full jump
carrying a uncertain son.
Which direction has he gone?
And with what weapon?
When the wind fall
Plucked his rifle like picking
An apple.
So now the parachute is a silken
Ghost pleated neatly,
A tent draped and breathing
Like puffing snake skin.
And no son, and no weapon,
The grass a buzzing place
beneath the open sky.
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