Football flurry by Lisa Pasold

a rewording of JKD's Flurry

Invisible the crowds expected, nothing like Ezra’s petals on a bough—in this swamp, there’s no metro, wetly rumbling, only helicopters, and below the flowerbursts of weeds growing over broken Grand Teton sidewalks, through air heavy with potential advertising revenue, renewal, tourist onslaught, bracing snow forgotten until that homewards flight Monday, for now it’s simply a bourbon-scented hot dream of a Sunday, bowling out of the morning with no expectations and a somewhat wilted Carnival hat.