For today’s OctPoWriMo tree prompt. Not hugging, but sympathising with. The form is one the Oracle whispered to me yesterday. I’m calling it a Sevens until further notice. And yes, I am sick and disgusted and depressed about the laxist attitude towards the massacring of our wildlife population by a tiny minority of middle aged men with guns. The wind blew hot and hard all last night. Sunday is the chasseurs’ especially productive day.
These trees are angry, listen
to their voices, the green-leafed
fury in the rising gale.
Acorns pelt and dead wood, yet
when the cold stars have faded,
tomorrow it will come, with
furtive gun-metal breath, death.