Leaves, flakes of stone stand alone,
Fluid air flowing through bone.
Alone in sunshine, hiding
Fluid whispers, sublime for some time.
Stone-still broken drones fall to flakes,
flakes of leaves of stone, still and alone.
Flow still, oh drone, fluid gears of bone,
Rusted, scattered, in tatters, stoned.
Said drone wandered, wondering its wisdom wise,
Else worried in slumber, stilling slowly
‘Till movement stopped. Sour pores on drones
Breathing, leaving letters in air, hanging
Crystals silent with noise. Not for fear
Of falling they search for still sands
And winds without leaves and stony silence.
Echo on, giants of sand, before all flakes
Are fallen, floored with grief of eyeing
Stretching plains, rune-smothered scepters
Full of regale. Baleful woes, those haunted
Living poles stalked by man, their arrows swift-
Witted, poised for throats, knives swoop,
Divide metal arms from torso, old blood
Pooled in lakes, then hardened to snow.
Bones in snow set to thunder
In rolling droves, one hundred
Doves hindered in kind by heavy
Shades of stone. Shadows sheathed
To hip inside minds molded over
Green with sleep, grown through feathers
In patches, Earthen-colored, blown. Wide,
Those once narrowed eyes,
Still focused below, on logs spinning
In waters roiling blue. Layers
Under rising up, bold enough,
Cold enough to rove, reaching
Water’s edge kissed with grass, last
To taste land’s bones. Dry bones,
Those roots alone, grasping, gasping
Rasping tomes of days past, years flown.
Flying above, fluid lands stoned
To standing on islands of ocean below,
Doves drone in swarms of beaks, silver-
Tipped with no teeth to speak of, calling
Open prairies home.