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          Wilton Elba
          By Robert L. Welby

          A cool clear Friday evening
          three years into the latest banishment
          darkness finds me on the porch, waiting.
          I sit in the wicker rocking chair
          beneath the glow of the strange blue light bulb.

          A pair of dueling crickets
          serve and return their chirping whirrs
          diagonally across the front lawn.
          The fresh cut grass smells so green and vital.
          Above it, flying in secret orbits,
          fireflies constantly relocate their winking signals.

          Now and again, I have to evade
          the swoops of blundering moths.
          The blue light seems to confuse them.

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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007

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