roy herndon smith
after the storm, we
stop and look at the felled tree
in the neighbor’s yard
the jags of white wood
the dark rot and the green mess
of leaves and branches
we comment on how
lucky it only glanced the
corner of the house
we fall silent when
we see the widowmaker
hanging high above
our heads in the tree
next to the felled one, we go
our separate ways
dust 