A rustling way back there,
a slight sound.
Something
that moves around.
Trees. Shrug the wind
through, over the pale spill
of ice into a purloined
distance. Outside,
the crepuscular
cries of what remains.
Not starlings but maybe.
An incessant cackle.
Teeth. Against a darkness.
Milkweed casts out its seeds.
Snow drifts down. Wings
spiral around.
A glass slowly filling.
Fallen in stray shafts
over the fescue fields,
wintered light still
cleaves an afternoon.
Fade
May 11, 2016 by 1 Comment
Very evocative.