by: W. A. Marshall

There was rawness
in the air
silent trees
and turning leaves
up there -  
a misunderstanding
of wounded egoists
in red gold wrappers
against measureless blue
nothing could stop her now
from shifting her messengers
knuckle white meat
little rat feet
crackling their collection
of bits on tree twigs
dropping mortars
on my metal roof
like sporadic gunfire
reminding me
of scrap heaps
that lay stone cold  
under condensed
damp days  
but gently near
this internal junction -
being intimate
with a mortal sunset
when my exceptional
summer is gone.