Credit

Feathers on the surface of a pond
spinning slowly carried further
by wind that knocked leaves off trees.

Fishing lures caught in branches
reaching over the shoreline
rusted from the rain.

A woman in tattered overalls
sandblasting old paint off a beat up van
to choose a different color.

The plastic walrus mask,
in the back seat, left over from her twenties
when she used to rob credit unions.

Their security was like a deadbolt
compared to the big banks.

The sound of the sand, and the gun
that contained it, was hypnotic to her.
Tearing just deep enough into the metal
to make it clean again.

It was a baptism through friction
that spread over the entire surface,
a fresh slate to be anything.
She could get away today
without ever leaving.

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