The aftermath of ripe flesh

The season has turned, ripening fruit in the trees.
That old persimmon in the far corner of the field
is now orange with pregnancy. The Waxwings
have found it, attacking the succulent gift. Loud
cries scream through the air, seeds and ripe flesh
rain down, as the aftermath of a mad bomber’s blasphemy.

©2011, Donald Harbour

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s