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BluegrassPoet

  1. The solid gray has broken, the sky shades again pearl to charcoal. Stars shine through, the first quarter moon is coy in a veil of clouds.
  2. The last leaves of black-seeded simpson look tired of struggle, brown-edged, a little less than crisp. Or is that my self that I describe?
  3. The air is drizzly dank, the sky a solid gray, the leaves on the ground are a uniform brown, and I'm wearing black today.
  4. Hooray! My gray day just got rosier. I will have a poem in qarrtsiluni's upcoming "Health" issue.
  5. RT @glenngreenwald: The greatest compliment paid to Al Qaeda is the fear that they can accomplish much by having their message heard.
  6. rt @ morganabag: crow / created / the universe / dropping feathers / on the wind #tanka
  7. @Judith12 If it's what I think -- the movie -- all those long white corridors were freaky.
  8. @Judith12 I remember both but I fell out with Crichton some time ago, and didn't even know there was an '08 remake.
  9. The ginko's gold is sodden now, edged with brown, bruised by rain and the tread of industrious feet.
  10. Tracer lines of rain across the early sun. A pair of gray squirrels play, lazy acrobats, in the bare high branches.
  11. Pst c'mere, pst c'mere shrills a bird hidden in sunrise mists, faster and faster, a demented old woman with a hot bit of gossip to praddle.
  12. I speed along high ridges from river to river under a sky shaded turquoise to lapis lazuli, palette knife daubs of cloud.
  13. Across the meditation trail, half-buried in fall gold, a possum skeletion sprawls, little dinosaur, its naked tail untouched.
  14. A sickle moon shines once in a clear black sky and again in the waters of the pond. Reflections of security lights drown out the stars.
  15. I pull my car into a slot suddenly paved with golden ginko leaves. Oak leaves occupy the bench beside the institutional sculpture.
  16. Half a dozen crows make a complaining progress from northwest to southeast, breaking the quiet of the morning garden.
  17. On a day of rare November sun, I wash gloomy windows, brush away egg sacks that cling to the frame. The spider hides under the sash.
  18. Frost, sown diamond dust, sparkles under the gibbous moon. Ice in the bucket withstands a knuckle rap. Water in the puddle reflects stars.
  19. A dove forages among the fallen dogwood leaves, hunkers down and disappears. Light from the rising sun is a watery yellow.
  20. The sun is hot on the horizon - the angry pink of a suppurating wound - but I am cold in my room, clutching my coffee cup for black warmth.