The visible remains of another day are evident as grey light above treetops. Shadows have swallowed the back yard; our white salamander friend arrives, climbing to the soffit, upside down. A feral cat’s outline emerges against the sky
Consider the sinkhole formation, the sudden black dot emerging from green pasture, growing, eating, swallowing. Cool air spills from below, bends the scorched grass. Consider the properties of this formation – the presence of dark, the absence of light, moist ground beneath the dry surface – a lost trust that…
There’s nothing in this warm, vegetal dusk That is not beautiful or that will last. — Joe Bolton, “Tropical Courtyard” At the end of Main Street, the sun pulls the road downward a little lower each day, before disappearing in green.
I. Back of a rented house its mock-barn roof warps; paint peels from the eave. Feeders suspend from what branches remain, while the severed limbs claim squatter’s rights by the gravel drive.