In a crying bell
birds orchestrate
a black geometry
of airdance
kaleidoscopic flight
Under the pretense winter
had no ground to clutter
with strident feathers
no cracked ice to knell
a wasted day
On several ponds
the skittering trees
cast coins of
sobbing, white, slim
maidens like handkerchiefs
On fire with angst for letting go
for falling as part of some plan
to disrupt the penance
of summer
dying of the forever cold
There goes the neighborhood
is why fish don’t look up
