H u n t i n g  F o r  A n g e l s

i n   N o v e m b e r

by Jerry Lincoln


Tangle random tracks
make odd designs in the
soft early morning clay.


From my height, they
look like constellations.
A maiden perhaps,
whistling a lullaby
or crying for the lost night.
Her tears form dew
on the early morning
laurel.


The sun, while making
its grand entrance is
drying her tears,
forcing the moonlight
to hide under rock ledges
and large leaves.


The delicious spoiled smell
of apples is wafting through
the crisp air.
Like invisible smoke from
invisible chimneys,
it creates memories.


Regally racing, properly
prancing, surgically slicing
steps, suddenly stop beneath
my pine mounted perch.


Awestruck,
humbled by her beauty,
I am unable to move.
Trying in vain to commune
with her thoughts, I
understand perfection.


She senses my presence,
and as if carried by
the wind is gone,
carried effortlessly over
the small crackling creek
that is winding its way
to the river below.