Photo ~ Diana Matisz
Through the glass I watch them sway
slow-motion dance of slumber
bare bones clack and clatter
as ice laden air and bitter rain
turn limbs from brown to black.
Branches bow low to earth
homage to ancestral roots
as the last brittle vestiges
of lost summer's finery
death spiral to the ground.
Above the sound of skeletal creaking
two owls converse prophetically
through the glass they stare at me
watching bare bones
clack and clatter.