the magpie

he sees the magpie
in full splendor and beauty,
as the bus pulls away
-in the rain.

she holds an old book about trees in her hand,
-green like the monster she cannot silence;
-old like their history in dreams.

There is a change in the weather.
She writes the wind down in borrowed words.

Thunder holds the clouds together, loosely.
The dots in the blue are silver bolts that hold
a wooden doll in place; legs and arms that can move,
(joltingly graceful)
to the sound of echoed cawing.

alone

i don't know why i always want to be the one that runs away from the campfire
(as the night's stars have just begun to cease their far-off absence).

the past is an old and hidden place that i shall never quite know how to let go of;
the signal fire never fully lit/never near to going out.

there is a barn owl whispering to me in the dead of night.

a folk song that needs played; again and again and again
-by myself
and in a place that wood pigeons hold watch over;
beautifully.