A field, an oak tree, a pond. 
Gold grass billows, a dream of fish. 
Horizon exhales, untuned air lifts a scribing hawk. 

The tree has spit its fruit, bitter scatter 
	from the prison of root. 
To wish for better is to grieve for wings. 

We cleave the long grass, rescuing nuts 
	to ping into the pond. 
Circles shred on the stone deaf shore. 

All fish have gone deep. 
There are no shadows, and the hawk hangs 
at the zenith. 

Bio: Charity Everitt