ㅁ A yellow moon rose over Olympia's firs, out by Rainier to the east. Aging hippies and their kids and grandkids and a few great-grandkids sat in a circle composed of memories and regrets and the sweep of time singing old Bob Dylan songs. The moon's light grew bold and enjoined the night to listen.
– a free-form poem.
I love this poem, the rhythms of it.