For the dverse prompt. I plead guilty to this kind of stuff, repeat offender.
Days of drifting drizzle and winged wind, flying in the
face of trees bent from decades of bracing themselves,
follow in procession, dragging their grey rags. The
spring ritual, introit and dismissal, bird-beat rhythmed
into repeated notes de dit de dit de dit echoes against
low hung sky, punctuated with spikes and spires of
treetops, the plainchant pure as rain-washed sky,
drawn by skeins of geese to the rim of tomorrow .