PUDDLEJUMPER: A.E. LINK FIELD


Beyond the oval blue
                 window—a bleak November.

 

Denuded ash trees
                              whisper a horizon.

 

Burnt matchsticks, a char of soldiers
tramping toward the vanishing point.
Surrender! they warn—shouting at the sky.

 

East
        a defiant leap of green
between the airstrip and a concrete mind.

 

West
         the quarter moon is talking
back to the sun.

Straight ahead is dappled 
                                         red, a harsh orange, yellow.

 

The air above is mottled
                   green, blue, a thin purple.

 

Everywhere
                    smudges pretend to be clouds.