Linear in its literal unfolding, night catches the unaware, flinging bat wings over everything; even anger is less intense than darkness, which challenges the
Two Redtails on an updraft hawk the field, their flight a dance of widening and approaching circles spiraling. It’s spring. Far below, the next
Fever overcomes me. The right wind is euphoric; the touch of fingers. I am the one who is going to cry though my winter