Misted Landing's Victory

The sleet spread like fingers across the blot of sky,

Tapering, like a skeleton trace, its oblong blob scratch of water, scarring the windshield, thusly -

More tears across a charcoal landscape of smoke wisps and huddling howling, its icy nearness

Of Season,

Sliding close.

The tap tap tapping of taps increased, as the temperature dropped, and the water's rhythm

became

A "dance macabre"against eagle sky time venture, a hesitant, dark brood messenger of apology betwixt intruded rage storm sky territory, signalling Death, nonetheless.

And yet! - amidst the shimmering vistas of exploding clouds - a blot of blue;

Only orbits of hope can seem, then, as these moments show themselves:

Sweet surety of scope, and flight, and hope intermingled,

As each and all winged prayers whoosh forward, hurtling

Towards themselves; a hopeful blot, annointed not as blight,

But Bird, life honored,

Again.





D. Nevills