Wind blows and birds, boughs bend beneath the weight of lisping leaves, and the golden stillness of yesterday swells into a sea of storm cloud. Hissing are the poplars where the jay hides, silent before the greater voice of the sky. Is the promised rain riding this torrent, ripping dry leaves still green from their anchors? This swollen world of furious air is at breaking point, birthing point, and though stout earth struggles against the flow, the winter twins will come, cold and hunger, and we bowl along before their laughter, fallen leaves.

across the sky

birds shoot wings still, rudderless

riding the storm tide

summer lingers in the

yellow heart of a flower