The Leaves of Fate are Changing;

An old way is now senescing, giving up the ghost, and making way for next year’s new growth. We tasted the crop from the old growth, and it was good, but a lingering desire to taste the new came at the moment the last fruit dropped. Temperate nights grew longer, and the days shorter, deciduous leaves gliding, tumbling and spinning. The birds are torn with indecision, some abandon ship while the rest rough it, digging in, eating seeds—tweet.

The fish are going to get hungry again.

Spring is rising on the Eastern horizon, and I know it ‘cause it’s raining. The sun’s coming up, and the highway is bare. Life in the den is close, but comfortable. The sweet sensation of waking from a long nap resounds deep within the bear; it’s time to get up. Time to move forward into the future and see what’s out there.

The frozen dirt’s turning to mud and it squishes underfoot. It smells exhilarating, like life again.

Some are left by river shores

Earth worms, try not to drowned—grab on with slimy tails and make wishes honoring each of their past fathers, with every one of their hundred hearts. They prefer to be around friends; even in a fisherman’s styrofoam cup they rejoice for good conversation and a roof over their heads, any place that protects against the rain and the spur of a cowboy boot.

The deer shed their ticks

A black lab yelps, angry at his owner for working too much. “Take your dreams by the tongue” a therapist says, sitting in a green chair. “Don’t let nature decide your mood”. A distant past, following the Oregon Trail, and surviving river crossings with fellow classmates. Programming has never been so simple—the green letters all add up. And we never understood why until now.

The roof is caving in, and it lets down all that it’s been collecting, and we aren’t mad, in fact it feels good, like a new pair of socks.

You have just read a poetic social media collaboration by George Dickson (first half) and John Clay Foster (second half)