A caress of senses
The dark grounds float in water.
Thoughts turn, in the quiet slanting sunlight.
Sitting alone outside on a bench.
The raven comes to look, turning its head with an obsidian eye.
Almost laugh, the demands of a bit of toast.
The feathered terrorist walks.
Wings out and threatens.
Cup down, bow up.
The arrow chunks into the ground in between
The Feathered Highwayman stops
He has met the Archer
Flight of wisdom.
I drink alone.
©2015 Dash McCallen