It’s the first day of autumn, and last night there was a harvest moon. That makes me think I should be posting some poetry, but I can’t find anything particularly suitable.

Still, the weather really is quite autumnal today, and if it stays this way, it wouldn’t surprise me if the swallows started gathering early for migration. I’ve had telephone wires and communications on my mind a lot recently, so maybe this will fit the bill:


Crossed lines

Pylons straddle the horizon, loop
the skeins of dreams
from town to town.
She calls long distance
to an empty house,
talks to air and leaves
her words hung on the wire.
Later, she watches birds
   s  c  a  tt  e
                    r       re group
                                 e   .
Tiny talons grasp ungrounded hopes
and give them wings.

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

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