Silver stains on the glass
streaks of blood on the rocks
leaves curled around their heads
white dreams where they left off reading
that the volcanoes have begun to erupt again
lava against the night sky
black-red and bold
Pacific currents stronger and colder
driving the fish to the moon
where blue trees grow in peace,
but they haven’t finished reading yet
eyes stuck to the words
hands smudging the type
the screen fogged and dirty now
while the wind hits the side of the house
and ancient birds return
carrying the song of deep enchantment
from the planet’s smoldering core.
.
Andrea Moorhead
.