Turning

This entry is part 91 of 93 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2011

Something burns somewhere: faint
hickory smudge carried on the air,

woodsmoke and leaf crackle. Against
the sky’s blue scroll, sleeves of green

donned a few more times before winter’s
coming. Half-covered in leaves,

one deer snorts to another. They
turn; one white-tufted beacon, then

the other— relays raised aloft
at the edge of the field.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Dear samba, dear bossa nova<em>No mas</em> →

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