Black Buzzards in November.

We burned Elm, granting passage to the dead.

Scenting sentences with Sauin smoke.

Leading the way, lighting the trail.

We left our offering of words

At the mouth of the cave,

Sending dead letters Home. 

Straddling their branches,

A quarter moon phase chases Friday

Over Brown County uphill lanes,

And the olive greens blend into grey.

Yellow smudges smear

Under the diving of blackbirds.

And a still peace rides on midnight aire. 

Halocene mist, douses the pavement.

Tasting midwinter leaves with each breath. 

Attuned to the wheels, I held those flitting droplets,

Sloshing around dreams along stream and bog.