Sky-blue pink, the sun
bold behind a golden-green
lace of cottonwood
stretches this October day.

Smoke-lined clouds
yawn across the scene. Horses
never turn from their buckets
but register the chill.

I walk down the road, the breath
of a tree on my neck, the spangles
and all their yearnings
a chorus in my blood.

A radio blasts: a shooting
at my former college. Police
have the shooter in custody,
no details so far.

Our time
on this skin of earth
grows cold, dried stalks
waving for their lives.

A storm brews and passes,
witches at a cauldron, scooping
mossy glop. Cackles flit like bats
in an evanescent dusk.