February dropped back into its cold posture,
bright. The day is yellow and the ducks see,
fast feats arrive upriver. The hunt takes into
account speed, without denominator, to
watch, watchless, the scotch current
match pace with pigeons overhead.
A partner in rhyme insists on checking the
grasses, nosing, interposing sharp whites
after fearful meadow mice. Presently, tense.
The left boot wears at the sole. Red traffic
swishes. Gait wishes consist of consistent
strides. Starts and stops slip on this dusty
winter glide. One step begets. The
ceiling stains eyes fluorescent.
Lapis lapses grey out,
backlit on high.
Roman Ryan 