STORYTELLER SPINS HIS TALE

the trees take
to the sky

great flocks of them
heading south

flying in a V formation
across a moon

the birds standing still
a forest of wings

a plantation of
song

when the mind is
twisted so

it's hard to tell
the woulds from the could bes

I  fall asleep
curled up in my uncle's lap

the magic of his words
winking like one cobweb to another

caught in
an early morning dew.