Brunch After the Apocalypse

 

Below the rolling dice of winter cloud

a single osprey circles the oxbow, keening

with hunger as an egret tenses, intent

on flinging its pale arrow

into the moment. It is brunch

 

after the apocalypse. A winnow

of sparrows nip on the deadly

nightshade’s ruby wink. Cut-throat

trout snatch jesus bugs

 midstride.

 

In the lee of a fallen log, a frayed man

leans over a handful of embers,

his makeshift shelter behind him

buckling. His family inside.

​

Published in ABRAXIS