Foundry and Mill

Larks are ascending funnels of sky, songs smoke from enteral chimneys. In an industrial park a fine Autumn light burns bright. Shoes fill with walkers, we are out and praising the clanking machinery, for we are all leaves in the same furnace. What we suppose to be sleep and decline is a wooded factory, a whittle and grind gearing-up for an over-spilling, a bundling color-filled season, one that will in time hammer snow out of spoilage. The Larks are trilling, they rise to the top of their voices. Conveyer belts of cooling hymns are ready to be parceled and sent, addressed graphically: 'Return to Sender.'