Karen Windus

A rustling way back there,
a slight sound.
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.

Karen Windus has lived a rather peripatetic existence. She now resides in San Francisco, CA after having studied and taught writing at the University of Massachusetts. She enjoys being an engineer and previous to that worked as a professional pilot and gang youth counselor. She fled the Great Recession by settling in Seattle where she improved her poker game immensely. She has additionally lived in NYC, Eugene, OR, St. Louis (east and west) and Albuquerque, NM.


  1. Kathleen Chaffin says

    Very evocative.

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