Summer, his evening

Summer cirrus pierced by jets
southing, one after another:
Tokyo? Soeul?
A reddening against which
swifts cavort,
reminiscing of Africa.
A jet goes widdershins:
Stockholm? Archangel?
The gull, cruising a meal,
could care less, nor the
rook late for rookery:
the first flash of bat,
a flurry of starlings,
a purpling tension
pierced by jets.

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Comments

  • 1emeraldcity  On July 25, 2011 at 6:26 am

    Very rich, lush language here. Those constant jets…A/C going full blast.

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