steps so softly down, fought and routed,
through the wounded ground.
Let the earth refill and filled beds creek.
Let backs draw in upon their curtained black.
Let autumn knife through summer's leavings,
leaves littered beneath a monotone of snow -
no overhead circling crows barrage,
no black-wings called to murdering crows.
see charged-blue, having gotten wind of nothing,
not one slurred blot of sun to suss out
that truce of trees thinned through final combing nights
lighting up November with their distant calls -
umber, amber - Stop. Remember
how that former green buried under each
new color something routed -
each every guard put down and gone?
