I pull a rake against dry oak leaves
the wind gusts and twirls
an invisible rope
coiling through the cooling air
sunset and shadows cover the ground
I can no longer tell leaves from grass
the purpling sky is a fading sea
tugging the live oaks against gravity
mockingbirds call and chirp
I don’t know what they’re saying
but I believe them
James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.
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