
a murder of crows
congregates on the concrete,
and I feel angst.
sure, I’m smarter than a crow…
but smarter than the murder?

a murder of crows
congregates on the concrete,
and I feel angst.
sure, I’m smarter than a crow…
but smarter than the murder?

Struggling to wiggle its wings, the butterfly warms in the morning sun. Is it like sleep paralysis - that hypnopompic impulse to flee that's stymied by stuck muscles? What's a wind gust or rapidly advancing shadow like for the butterfly? Normally, such occurrences would provoke an erratic fluttering away. But now the screaming instinct to wing away can't be answered. Does the butterfly know dread, or does it just quietly await the moment it's unfrozen? cool morning - a butterfly twitches, but can't yet fly

some see a spider,
i see a goateed,
grinning bandit

hatchwork of trees
provides a hunter’s blind
to see the city

so much flower
unpacks from one
tight green bud
Rubble cubes lie like piled dice. Temples and throne halls collapsed into mossy blocks brought low by the meager -- if inexorable -- forces of water drips and grass roots, roots that became wedges, splitting stone from stone. People push the blocks back together in homage to ancestors, but turn one's back and the hungry jungle consumes. Those ancestors crafted such sturdy stuff out of stout stone blocks. How much more quickly will our planned obsolescent cities be swallowed? stout stone blocks - toppled, dissolved, buried - a city swallowed