The babbling crook of winter, refracted-

whirring against morning. The chill, crooked call


a shrammed cello pressed heavy and sweet,

brighter than the trees. She readies


her creaking wooden bow, burning last pinch of blood,

their threatening silence. Flakes thickened lukewarm


cherry. The pop and crunch of the approach,

underfoot her audience glisten lightly. An index of carvings,


listen. They drift in watery particles of mud,

bluebird skies crack, awaiting the tut of stepping ahead,


out of time


rolling fog obscures strings made from berry-vines,

choking for sunlight as they drench in basking decay. This time slower.  



wasn’t she a marvel?


Look at her scramble today.




Image: by Markus Kniebes on Flickr

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