Watching flocks of black birds
striping trees of insects,
somethings just not right.
Something uneasy
in the synchronized flutter
of their dark wings,
as if someone is being
taken with them.
All at once, a million angels
fleeing toward the inevitable.

The first cool air of the season
slips under the door
draping an icy chill on our souls,
that we just can't seem to shake.
The forest fern curls up
against the cold, knowing,
what we have yet to see,
what is yet to be known.

The meteor shower of the century,
obscured by clouds
and she is gone.

Our world changes forever.
The old life moves on,
taking us with it.
The new one rises up behind,
pushing, herding us on.

The forest fern curls up
against the cold, knowing.