A November night
A hot white moon
Against a wickered black
Ignites a gnarled ridge
A cold metal breeze
To strip the trees of summer sleeves
And paint a trace of crinkled red
In darkened hollers
And dried creek bends
And burrows tucked tight
The night rustles news
On punctuated cue
That winter shall be here soon
Copyright © Justin Clason | Year Posted 2025
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