The First Morning of Thanksgiving Week

Reflections on water migrate, I think

change,

even if the light is constant.

Silver patches broken only by the breeze, by

Anhinga,

the snake bird; slender neck’s reaching strokes.

My skin, bare shoulders, feels

translucent,

loose wild hair ideas brought me here.

On the far shore I see, a

splash,

something was breakfast.

A long distance, a chainsaw

dismembers,

the tree for communion.

clouds

November on the pond.

About

Fiction writer, story teller, and Multi-media Mage for Brave Writer. Follow her projects on Instagram, Facebook, and at www.TiaLevings.com.

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