When septet tunes and turns a page on declining stars in rising dawn plum is the voice of evensong. They scooped their watery beds where a silver river wrinkled and rose to raft the fry that failed, over embryos, and last year's leaves. They scooped their watery beds where a silver river wrinkled and rose to raft the fry that failed, over embryos, and last year's leaves. I Devolution has a stealthy march. Electrum clouds are then closely cropped to resemble the hair of an elderly priest, and all seems to be moving east into west to bathe a stoic neighborhood in reams of squandered light while west to east is a hidden truth, perhaps.
Thunderstorms coagulate above molting birds of prey at humid sunset.
Straight rain imagines nothing else. Rapiers of rain fall in escadrilles like devils after pride through thoraxes crucified under bags of windless perdition. And people walk, and wrinkle, and run before rain. They run realizing advancing time- through slashes of aureate beaming and whites undisturbed by shade, past cedar shakes across the avenue past patches of devaluation in unwashed streams of vesper light. Devolution has a stealthy march.