That patchwork of colors is hiding in the hills a bit west of Ashland.
I don’t want to give too precise a location, not something
that could be found with a global positioning satellite
and a bored frat boy with a drone bought to deliver beers
based on some reel watched
while not paying attention during a psychology lecture. No

it should be left alone to be stumbled upon. Only those
with sufficient imagination will notice and will want to keep it
for themselves, a small poem, a picture they’ll paint later
when no one’s around, a smile while drinking coffee
on a gray morning

caught somewhere between the memory of oranges,
yellows, and reds and the familiar dread
felt before wandering off to the car, towards a line of traffic
traveling towards eight hours where colors
are strictly at the discretion of management.