The trees are silent
this afternoon, their blossoms
stripped by last night’s gale.
The gutters over-
flow now and pale petals ride
the low tide. I sit;
a crack of thunder
creates a high and drops blot
my open Fieldnotes.
The trees are silent
this afternoon, their blossoms
stripped by last night’s gale.
The gutters over-
flow now and pale petals ride
the low tide. I sit;
a crack of thunder
creates a high and drops blot
my open Fieldnotes.