Ashen clouds tainted with smoke
Stretch across a pale sky
Like cats on Sunday afternoons.
A plastic bag dangles,
Snagged on a stray branch,
And rustling against sun-soaked leaves.
As the horizon swallows the sun,
Our house is bathed in blue shadows and silence;
Even the wind chimes are still.
But the grief-song of the doves
Remains.
Why are they crying?
For lost loves.
Nature knows
There will be rain tonight.
Misha Tyler, 2014
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