Green Contemplation I

A black, wrought iron fence, with ornamental spikes bares its teeth at the setting sun that is rushing through its ribs.
Silent fire, orange and red bangs noiselessly between the bars.
Razor-flakes of paint erupt outward from the metal it was supposed to protect.
A dusty, uneven, abrasive orange skin shows through where naked iron should sleep, protected from the ravages of oxygen.

A tree exhales, and iron dies.

Fitting retribution that, for untold generations of axe-bite.
Sharp, cool, and merciless, they are........axes.

I've seen the stupid finches lay dead twigs and grass in your sterile branches, cold and ugly.

No grace in metal, it knows not how to dance the slow dance of days into weeks into months into years.It doesn't bow in respect when brother wind rushes by.

No.

Metal is stubborn; perhaps proud. I couldn't say for sure as I've never heard even a whisper from it's haughty lips in the still of an evening, after sparrow song is done.

Sparrows.

I love how they tickle as they fly in and out of my arms that were made for their abiding. And the song of their babes in their hunger ....