Today we don't hear the epistle
of the river
Only the sound of pages
rippling in wind
A storm has formed off
a nearby coast
Who is making those pictures
now of hurricane paths
Coloring in the arrows
of its intentions
It has been a short and
fickle season
Near moldering fruit,
a swallowtail butterfly fans itself
Overnight, it seems the gods
have eaten more than their fill
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
