Author Information
The Reds
Come around soon, the shrunken town
satellite gravity, living blank as the page and its blots each
dripping down
the frost will be known
undertow when the lunar specter curves its back- a quaking stroke the brush unmanned
a jutted hip

As vixens howl soaked in the glow of unsheltered
brisk
the ground breaths their musk waiting to renew in deeper tones of vivid life crosswinds
struggle feathered, wresting with drifts
The silence between and grouped tails flamed covered in snow
the chase has eased until warmth returns.
