A dark triangle
of balloon rubbers goose stepped on silent wing above me
in the fading azure ceiling.
The air was chill but breezed branches added to the furore, and
cackled mirthless having stripped for this occasion.
Fault holes of brightest promise appeared in familiar but alien pattern across the encroaching panorama
that is the absence of day.
A shiver emanates from within and muscles ripple like wind-swept pond, brief but noticed none the less.
Winter is springing into full bloom, dead things fall but things that wish to live have taken flight, triangles of life squeaking away yonder.
They that have accepted the program of racial memories to flee.
Off to a land of wonder on yonder side of mud ball, southerly.
This dark phalanx of feathered flurries aim pointedly, and I feel less for them than I do me.