Those migratory storks,
will not come
this year.
The lake was burning.
The secret kill
of the wringer
was metastasizing.
Make the tether-
small for the macabre
end. I am not yet
frozen. The stalker
will not leave the
flame. Outside a tribute
was ready for
an uprooted tree.
My shadow moves ahead
to catch a cage bird,
in the parrot green sky.