The Reds

Come around soon, the shrunken town

satellite gravity, living blank as the page and its blots each

dripping down

the frost will be known

undertow when the lunar specter curves its back- a quaking stroke the brush unmanned

a jutted hip

As vixens howl soaked in the glow of unsheltered


the ground breaths their musk waiting to renew in deeper tones of vivid life crosswinds

struggle feathered, wresting with drifts

The silence between and grouped tails flamed covered in snow

the chase has eased until warmth returns.

View melztodd's Full Portfolio