Rubber hand left out; washing off a borrowed face, cold November rain.

A chirp in the dark; the glass egg hungry again— frost on the window.

Tide pulls back its foam— the cracked timber of the pier creaking in the cold

Ten thousand helmets marching to defend a sweet— winter river wind.

Cold glass in the dark; a finger touches the light— moths beat on the pane.

Heavy pasture rock— dragged across the frosty plains to the osprey’s shore.

Badge left on the desk; turnstiles click into the dusk, dry leaves blowing past.

Ripe pear drops to mud— freed of weight, the resting bough rises in the cold.

Twin wings of thin glass open to a sudden spark— first frost on the sill.

Deep rot in the root — far off in the winter rain, a pale blossom falls.

One straight wooden chair; outside in the winter light, the hawk folds its wings.

Chalk lines fade to mud; a whistle left on the bench fills with autumn rain.

Cold rain on the strip; two rooks hunched along the fence— iron clicks again.

Snow slips from the pine; the bough springs back to the sky, needles trembling still.

Black soot on the snow; a thousand iron wings hum, the cold river burns.

Ancient shelf of blue, shattering into the sea— high tide wets my step.

Cold glow of the glass; red maples let go their gold to the silent street.

Ice knots the deep creek; mid-stride, the great shadow halts in the frozen grass.

The heavy ash swings— catching only autumn wind; shadows stretch the dirt.

Four swallows return to the cracked and weathered nest— chattering of spring.

Smoke across the sand— on the tarmac, silent wings wait for early spring.

Past the iron fence— in cold grass, two amber eyes and an empty shoe.

Thick grease on the ice; a sudden flare in the dark— geese fly south through smoke.

Charred glass on the stone — across the empty runway, late November wind.

Boards across the glass; high tide creeping past the sill, warm rain smells of salt.

Cardboard on the steps, soaked through by the sudden rain— one cicada cries.

Glass cold to the touch; on the stoop, the shipping box fills with autumn rain.

On the seventh day, fingers trace the rising ribs— thin moon through the pine.

Brambles catch the fleece— the fierce leap of a young lamb scatters autumn frost.

Red leaf on the bough, thrashing in the autumn wind— first frost on the corn.

Two old fighting cocks, circling in the parched red dust— thunder in the palms.

Wild waves on the glass, Fame is smoke upon the gale, Truth remains unmoved.