through air streaming and green-lit
hefting chalk-hulled flint.
we move through the brush,
the red filaments burn wild.
a finger furrowed field
waits with a harrow heavy guild
to trap us
in the fiery wheat.
Ringdoves roost well within this wood-
they sing and squawk as best they could.
yet tomb-like figurines cut through
this heavy land and slice their wings.
flayed colors ripen on the bramble
and the lost willow pixies amble
over thorns of sprigged hedge
and on the ledge they balance their small hooves.
a perse sky above shakes with rain
small droplets leave as soon they came