the night is still
the sun,
an overripe persimmon
descends through a shroud
five hundred cockatoos take flight
an evening squall:
our warning
from the south
wind like a melting glacier,
an avalanche through a chasm
takes our breath away
we hold our hands to our faces,
stare into the rising cloud
a dark fungus blooming
ash in our hair,
upon eyelashes
a single black leaf
floats onto my arm
Sweetly Unhappy People 