For the Local

Long years of less,
hard to draw on memories of leaves
sailing narrow canals from a lake
tipping like the last plate in a pile
at the top of the hill.

Once was abandoned,
an old smoked out mill,
used for practice drills by the local,
remodeled, lot paved over,
bridge removed.

The best places feel temporary but last,
The worst feel eternal but rush past.

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