Adrift the tumbleweed, tarrying, bit
The bumper, bouncing and by lamplight lit
Collapsed like ash in traffic it so yearned
To drive beside. So flung, so flat, so burned,
Its fate fulfilled, insensate as it seems
The dawdling bush desired the streams
Of dusty commerce flying on the 5,
Its moving death greater than immobile life.
Or so we may consider. For who
Knows the dreams of tumbleweeds, and who knew?

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