The Heather and the Slings – A Sicilian Octave

i watched the birds dance among the heather, hopping and chirping in the breath of spring. no thoughts had they just then as to whether the frost, nor the chill that winter would bring. no future pain: neither now, or ever, might hope to still the songs that they might sing. their voices: full, warm…

Natural Jazz

look out towards latticed crust forestry heaving upon the tide of heavy wind laced in crystalline distillate – how sorrowful their posture barren in midwinter dull and grey – fenced off by toasted oat reeds fibrous weeds flourishing amidst the desaturated landscape – at times i believe i’m searching for color – that if I…