The waters rise slowly, at first - like a cool tease or flirt. But soon there's not one single inch of dry or exposed dirt. It's knee-high seas for as far as the naked eye can see. The shrubs are drowned, and there're no trunks on any of the trees. I'm sick of being soaked, and hope the world will quickly drain, and restore what was once a vast expanse of fruitful plains.
In the world of mechanical birds, birds that whir and chink and prance with mechanistic precision, I miss warbles and trills and chaotic flight paths.
winter winds blow
with no snow to tumble
but bones to chill
crumbling canyon,
stone cubes in loose stacks
and yet silence
light fringed cloud
zig-zagged like a lightning bolt
in the autumn sky
The cloud mimicked a mountain top, its ridge sun fired to bright white by the rising sun, its shadow side in granite gray, being impenetrable to the sun's rays. Mountains that imposing live a thousand miles away, but that cloud took me there. the morning sun lights up a dense cloud to mimic mountains
roots sprawl, sinuously creeping. what's it like to hold so firm and reach so far?
banana flower glows in the morning sun, racing in stillness
