Ten black crows
in a red-budded
cottonwood tree
basking in the eerie
glow of the waning sun
bruised, livid sky
weighted air
waves shush, shush
on the receding tide
serenity reigns
but I can feel it
hovering offshore
a curled fist
wound tight
ready to strike

Let your inner imp go  f r e e

Don't keep it locked inside

Let it RRRRRUUUUUNNNN!

And  
                             P  
                   M    
         U   
J             

And PLAY again

You're sure to win a

                     S                            E
                           M      I       L

(C) Pixievic 2016

I see the clouds
As big holders
Of poetry

Ready to
R
A
I
N

D
O
W
N
On me.