Our position changes
relative to the sun
and now a fiery light
blazes through
the windows on my door.
And the migration
changes direction too —
with prairie warblers
following the river
and the sun back down.
We await a riot
of carousel color
and falling,
into golden days
and clear nights
when the reaping scythe
sweeps the stars out
brilliant scatterings
casting runes and
of bone dust,
scales and feathers
to sing our sleep.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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