Null Endeavor

 
Trees cut black marks in the evening gray,
a web of bloodless veins drooping earthward,
unable to touch the stars from which
they came.
 
 
By K. Shawn Edgar

Bombing the Hill at Stub Stewart

I feel the flying insects in the air when my hand skims the breeze.

This tells me the birds are coming from above, shooting along downdrafts, and will soon flutter and flap around my head.