The Narrative Image

A thin, icy, cloud painted crystals overnight onto chilly windshields Till the morning’s faux summer-sun chased it into low places Winter’s premature apparition melts in gullies, carved across sloping fields Behold a golden diamond set in a blue dome of sky, quiet and still as if in permanent stasis Until Winter’s specter fingers stretch forth, over brittle, golden-fields shivering Birds bail out of the sky, as if some great dangerous tide is turning I stand atop a deep cut scar, a canyon, a river’s ceaseless dithering Gusting winds kick up a haze though no fire is left burning This bird’s eye view reveals my path through history, those days of triple digits The river, flashing cold blue grins, teases saying, “I still got your (pretty-good) fishing pole” It seems unlikely that a river’s fits and starts, its endless fidgets Would craft such nonsensical wondrous scenes — absent any goal ...