My head held low, I tread on autumn's trail. Crisp footfalls stir the air, sweet with the scent of leaves in bold decay. Today the veil of fog won't lift nor will its chill relent to the yellow sun's low-slung arc. I meant to write before the summer's end but now another leaf begins its frail descent. The words, like leaves once green upon the bough, have fallen in the field to wait for April's plow.
No Spring In My Step
What I've got dawns behind an eggshell where the dark veins of late-winter trees reach skyward but cannot find the light to fill the cup, heal the aneurysm of a bare nest. One day soon, winged beings will confect the powder to blue an egg. Until then, I will surrender to the vertigo, release my stable perch for that dizzy place I cannot comprehend but where the winged ones say we dwell before conception and after death.
Cristada
i. Unfold the scene
Framed against sky, the upper reaches of a late-Winter tree:
with one thrust broad wings present the true blue chevron corvidae.
Black knuckled twig to twig, its trim fuselage nods a thin branch as it vectors.
ii. Zoom out to a worm's view
A tree pre-Spring, branches blurred and bird dithered, cyan against cyan:
for an instant their skulls unhinge, mechanical warbling skews the picture, dopplers hues...
iii. Fade
...but just as soon this scene too bleeds to gray, segments snipped.
