Against an empty sky,

the sycamore is draped in gold

but sculptured high,  too high,

I can’t touch her hair.

 

On the dark avenue,

no one talks

hiding behind their collars

scooping their papers,

running back inside.

 

Winter will come soon

sparrows will hide in the thicket

behind the fallen faux fence

(it’s only pretending to border)

betrayal of yard order.

 

23 Oct 08

Dave Barber

Collection:  Natural Law

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