A countryside
dirt-road, a black
crow in the blue
sky, a scarecrow
dressed as Jesus,
and trash swirling
in the late
November wind.

Alone this winter,
an elderly man,  
with an eyebrow
raised at half-mast.

The news anchor,
with perfectly
formed ripe red

lips, describes
another unsavory
political scandal,

as the leaf blower
loudly propels
autumn’s colorful

debris from the
driveway, while the
iron heats up,

poised to press
the wrinkles out
of the white shirt,

with its faint
brown stain of
forgotten origin.

The summer
sky is a
vivid azure
blue. The red
hibiscus is
blooming on
the white
porch. Below
lies the old
photo of  
a man in
a gray suit.
The yellow
kite, tethered
to the hand-
rail is waving
in the breeze,
as the photo
suddenly
flies away.

In the end, it can all
be explained, and none
of it can be explained.

Tomorrow will exist,
of course, but by
then it will be today.

Language becomes
a long gurgle and
a quick sputter, and

as expected, by those
still paying attention,
it is irrevocably broken.

Adam, having just popped
out of the ground like a

time-elapsed plant, is
enchanted, almost

mesmerized by the snake.
Eve descends to earth

via parachute from god
knows what height, and

points out that the snake
is clever, creative and,

by-the-way, poisonous.
The snake shapes itself

into, the not yet invented,
letters of the alphabet.

“It is speaking to me. It is
creating a visual

language,” proclaims Adam.
“First you must charm it,

and then use it carefully,”
implores Eve.

But it is already too late.
The snake bites Adam and

he dies. Eve, ever prescient,
looks up to the sky and says,

“I know. This is what we
have to look forward to.”

The boy in a new
shirt, when asked
his age lurches
forward, all five
fingers splayed
in front of him.