sonjabroderick

I walk on roads where brown words hang heavy on the trees, and bulbous blood-red berries crown over the winding avenues. Where the birds are packing up for long journeys, their discarded flakes of nestleaf drunkly swirl down the spinning whiffs. Where a badger snuffles out a hedge, takes one busy look, then flees the scene rustling through the thorns and fern. Where the low sun swipes a stripe of light along the scarlet hawlines and defies the bruised September sky And the last crazy wasps frantically search for a deposit before sundown, before death, woozing about in the fat rays. Where proud geldings stand high above a crisping pool of dying green, mirroring the chestnut of their auburn sheen. Big bursting sycamores proudly arabesque and rasp a tongue at their approaching nudity As my shadow darkens taupe dancing, angled into the briars, and I glide toward a season of breaths, glistening in an early frost.