Rusty Morrison An Intersection of Leaves Not Likeness

Shadows, moving across grass, never touch the clouds that make them.

A little damage on both sides of the thought, when a thought is
the gathering force.

The dead make thin every surface where I listen for them. Today, the white
skin of birch.

To mistake pine cones for beaks and watch each open and caw.

Bright stone after stone on the gravel path. Calamitous collecting, then only clamorous.

Leaned back against pine, as if to brace and then branch. Leafed shut my

Atmosphere assessed me accurately as yet un-released from my useless acts.

Brazenly I grasp branch after branch, hoping any part of the inevitable
might rub off.

The jay lands, cocks his head and stares, louder than any squawk or squall.

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