I Think I Shall Never See…

Emaciated oak trees, tall and sickly in the distance,
struggle to be noticed; the cacophonic crows seeking
shelter from the rain disappear over a ridge, leaving
nothing but the silence of a murder in their wake.

Webs of gaunt branches form the autumn intersection
between earth and sky, belonging to neither realm but defining both.
Stripped naked, then abandoned by tenants, they rustle
and chatter in the chilly breeze, talking only to themselves.

Tall pines silently witness the annual psychoses of their
denuded brethren, unable to offer succor or solace, engaged
as they are in less ostentatious dementia, needling
the ground with sharp spikes and dropping oval alligator bombs.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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