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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



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

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