HAWK & THE RAVEN

  Full  moon silver frosted leaves; glassing dew robed sycamore sleeves. Sagacious spiders (masters of weave), slept snug and warm beneath creaking eaves. Our creek roared fierce with a late spring rain. All things full must surely wane. Perpetual blossoms should not be sad yet how do I sing when I am mad? Atomic beats drove me…