that first autumnal crisp air
the moon, a low hanging scimitar
day after a seasonal rain
even the mud sceams October
that first autumnal crisp air
the moon, a low hanging scimitar
day after a seasonal rain
even the mud sceams October
the gray world still spins
the grease-coated starling
protests salvation
after the manner of his saviors
a fish swims uphill
the mud left from one more drought
caked to what used to be legs
there is no reflection just a baboon tossing rocks in the pool
wondering at the ripples unaware of depth