The woods are more open by the day.
Three croaks from overhead: a raven,
rattling like gravel in an ice cream churn.
We've moved to the high country
where the power lines cut the sky
into polygons of cloud
too bright for human eyes: where
the stars burn like acetylene,
and loneliness fits over your heart
like the sleeve of a sphygmomanometer.
What impends – what waits – what hangs –
is a noiseless leaning tower of air.
In response to this Morning Porch post.