The scissor-tails cut
the gloaming.
Circus clouds
sweep up their calls.
My eyes eat
them up with you.

Commonality is forgotten
in this cavern
of silence, yet our
lawn chairs of
love are eternal.

Angel's above
are about to move
the furniture.
Motion roosts.

Your pipe smoke
reminds me of a
wartime we were
more alive than ever.
The three bears air
make us want to
pet each other.


Sara Fielder © June 2018