a balding, white-haired
man sits in the dark
until 3 a.m. with
his eyes lightly shut.
his head bounces
softly to the sounds
of miles davis. tomorrow
this old soul's heart
will beat it's final
beat. premonitory vision
of impending death, perhaps
mere coincidence.
flash forward to
a bright day.
the aroma of freshly
excavated earth lingers.
tears stain wind
burnt faces as a
trumpet blows quietly.
miles' final farewell.
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