The wind writes letters in the language of
fallen leaves, edges like burnt parchment.
The moon carves shadows of boughed arms,
a question mark deep in the soil’s throat.
Somewhere, she hesitates, the magpie:
one foot in the underbrush, one in the realm
of quicksilver and stolen syllables.
Her beak glints with the moon’s loose change.
What does she know of the weight
of a minute’s wingbeat? She tilts her head,
stitching the sky with a thief’s precision—
collects tarnished seconds.
The wind’s letters fray, unreadable now.
The magpie flies, trailing a cry that unravels
time’s hem.
A poem co-written by me and AI. I take close to zero credit. Can AI produce art that is beautiful or meaningful?