the day drags on.a muddled sky uncertain of its own color shuffles through the light and time. it is november it is december it is the last day of february it is the last day of history.
a black dog tumorous from age straddles the broken plain. the wind passes over the animal and then rejoins on its unbroken path to the west. towards dusk there are no points of return or remembrance. tomorrow becomes a place of its own sorrow made new by the blighted passage of night.
trees make obscene death gestures now stripped of their leaves. they mock us in their place against the horizon, against the promise of life itself. in the fade of light, of this day there comes an end.

i will wait and listen. i will hear the painted song, the sap of trees motionless preparing for winter's prickly embrace.