From the edge of the Tennessee River
on the Muscle Shoal’s side, we lean
into the humidity sitting atop those still waters.
The sunset hits the old railroad bridge
with all intent to steal the glory of the city
rallying with it the headlights
from cars headed into the humming.
By evening’s latter end,
folky new south singers and blues bellowers
have not only taken the city back,
but have stolen the light.
Originally published at Hobo Camp Review – Issue 29