Watching November. Stories of leaves and lives, the paths of weather and wind. The naming of storms as they move across oceans. Characterized. Rummaging inside the stories, among their array, thoughts detained by tracking their descents, following the arc of their flaws. Outside, the leaves are in wet piles, soon to be gathered up in a blend of red and gold from clutter to compost. There is no catharsis here. Only fiction contains them. The blue jay parents who caused such a fuss protecting their young last spring are still around. Quiet now. One of them still tilts her head, listening.

You can find my recently published Fibonacci poem on Muse-Pie Press. Just follow this link –https://www.musepiepress.com/fibreview/index.html

Upcoming art to be published in the winter issue of Juste Milieu Zine.