she chalks their wings in darkest hour
-glass green, splendid in their falling.
They’re sprawling loose and long and
strong in this bright sky, and she can
see tiny talons, teeth. Truth. The wild
wild proof and promise of a finer life
and all its trappings. Saffron soulful
eyes. A wink of embered smile.
In November, we poem. And poem and poem.