A crystal plate of suffering leaned up against the side of the road. Collected and placed in a bag, the spirit of the dying winter carries it with her everywhere she goes.
Steam rises from a purple rim like fog off mountain peaks. Rooftops glisten in a dusting of brilliant white struck by sunbeams from a stark blue sky.
Around a rim of low-hanging houses, a blanket of clouds lay lazily like unrolled cotton sheets. The sun will stitch lines through these neighborhoods, quilting the unassuming together.
A door opens across a lonesome street. A black cat with burning green and hazel eyes stares into the mouth of the moon. Nothing moves. A sparrow and a crow cry together. A seagull wings higher on a draft toward the stars.
Light dances like lightning bolts from edges of roofs, drip drip dripping down to splatter on grass and rocks and stepping stones laid by planning creatures. Steam flows off warming surfaces like rivers backwards, upwards, into the air to be come part and parcel of the atmosphere.
Branches like bones reach crooked fingers toward the burning source of energy and hope. A vacuum stands between the two, unaware. A mouse pants breath into the frozen dawn. A green-tipped branch breathes it in. Exchange.
Life is but a dream dreamt between the sun and the Earth’s core.
Tomorrow, the dreamers slowly swing further from their mate.