Catch It If You Can

Moss suffocates the branches
In the forest of the mist.
Smoke pours out from the pines,
Yet another mere charade.

Ravens mock the dawn,
Twisting coarse tongues at the dew.
The clouds crawl up the mountains
Encasing stone in a cotton veil.

Mystic as it is, bald feathers fly alone,
Drifting, soaring, eyes at peace.
Charred boulders stalk scaled dogs
While the wind blows in admiration.

July 23, 2009.