by David Chorlton
The sky across the desert
in December darkens; lined with ice
it passes from a mountain’s edge
to a storm of needles
on flat and open land. Each drop
of morning rain
is speared by one as it descends
and holds its place
as long as there is light inside it.
A shower brushes up against
a windgust searching
for a canyon, but which finds
only the frost blackened
hawk taking leave of a cloud.
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