a new one...
hawks
at the end of a
long dirt road,
the small blue house
sits on a hill.
there is a creek nearby
and a sheer rock face
rising up from the other side.
a tree with silver bark
stands alone
down the hill
near the water,
near where she found the
hawk's feather.
over in the pasture,
crows are
massing
and signs of wildlife
appear
in the dense grass.
it is autumn. the leaves
are fire and wine.
the air is a razor, poised
and ready.
winter is coming.
but
it
is
not
here
yet.
cunningham
08
at the end of a
long dirt road,
the small blue house
sits on a hill.
there is a creek nearby
and a sheer rock face
rising up from the other side.
a tree with silver bark
stands alone
down the hill
near the water,
near where she found the
hawk's feather.
over in the pasture,
crows are
massing
and signs of wildlife
appear
in the dense grass.
it is autumn. the leaves
are fire and wine.
the air is a razor, poised
and ready.
winter is coming.
but
it
is
not
here
yet.
cunningham
08
posted by christopher cunningham at 2:54 PM
3 Comments:
"the leaves/are fire and wine"
ooh, that's gooooooood. thanks for the read!
*bows*
thanks for the kind words...
the poems return at their own pace these days.
lazy fuckers.
lazy, indeed.
very.
glad to hear they've ambled their way to your doorstep. when you're done visiting, send them my way.
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