They Call It Pining

They call it pining,
Wolves slumped
Against trees,
Clouds turning to fog,

A strong, silent wind
At the base of a mountain
Longing for sky,
Pine cones shut tight,

A summer destroyed
And the whine of a dog
Caught in a fence,
Miles from home,

A bird’s broken feet,
Black canopy nights
And the ruin of bears
With plastic bead eyes.

This is the future,
A moon sat unkempt,
A rusty nail poking
From an old rotten gate post,

Waiting for a loser,
A child with screaming teeth,
Or a fat doe-eyed cow
Covered in silver,

Somebody, something,
A single torch light
Through a dark crying sky,
The talk of the village,

A glint in the eye
Of the hopeful and sane,
The leaves that block gutters,
A tractor on fire.

Poetry.net

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