contravent

A hawk's plaint
echoes through the empty village
as lonesome as a burro bray.
He's begging in isolation
in an emptiness
without water or food,
no heat but within his heart.

She deserted him in December.

Her winter signature lingers
reminding
that one
may trust the devil.
Detrimental!

It's spring.

We've no oil for the lamps.
There's no bride for the bird.