04/365 - 11/365

An open hydrant
transforms into a fountain—
water burgeoning
everywhere— grackles cluster
as a jubilant coven.
•
Resisting the fall
into sleep, my son disguised
as the moon, tumbles
and rolls across the surface
of his crib repeatedly.
•
The final sun drifts
along the back garden wall,
releasing flocks of
red wing blackbirds: testaments,
each and every one of them.
•
Within the corner
of my left eye, a small vein
blossoms, opens out
a single blood flower
waiting for acknowledgement.
•
Tonight, no more words.
Leave the lights burning in every
room— open all doors.
Let actions replace the text
of this moment's arrival.
•
Two grackles bicker
perched on the edge of this year's
drought. With strange formality—
closely circling each other—
wildly spitting out curses.
•
A persistent whine
in the background. As a ghost
child humming lost rhymes
or perhaps instead it's a
mosquito trapped in the room.
•
Yesterday, four cranes
emerged from the pond, despite
continuous drought
pouring over the landscape
with a controlling embrace.