That moment when his red-faced fury could turn on me…

Or that moment when my back slid across the stones on the bottom of the Animus River, the surface tauntilizingly close, yet out-of-reach.

Or that moment when all of my life lies in my past, as I exhale for the last time.

cold rain

a bird leaps among

bare branches

the futility of saying

“not yet, not yet…”

for Tanka Poets on Site: Gerry Muse #451. Prompt for 5th April 2025 O death where is thy sting?