Ribbon of geese
Cloaked within currents,
Spiraling trails of cold-air prophets.
I grieve in the wind-song of
Autumn in flight.
How can you beckon in times such as these?
Indiscriminate blasts drone across deserts
Families crying white phosphorus tears.
Yet I breathe in this brilliant orange sunset.
Bless the draped bodies our eyes cannot see.
Fly over the troops,
Victims of empire
Trained for the kill.
Sing them to peace.
My rake and I muse, scratching in rust tones.
I place my trust in the Pilot of Wild Things.