The smoke from the firewood whispers out over grey and emerald grasses, between the fraying birches, through the spider’s nets to its swaying erstwhile sisters. Particles settle onto bark, glide into resin, drip a slow ecstatic drip to the raven's raucous call. They fall with young cones into leaf mould; they pine for their varnished brethren indoors.
Image: Trip Advisor.
Written in Antigonish; in memory of E. Bischoping.
Posted to dVerse Poets.