by PM Flynn
The rains came while I slept, a sleep of forgetting the broken picturesI remember for a few more moments. I know because a steady dripof faces in my dreams.Darkness lingers in the thick clouds covering evening’s light, the eastern horizon edges a wall of haze traveling with words in other tongues.A solitary bird flies east, an omen to medicine men, a reminder of one’s own journey. The bird, black against the gray morning, speaks its only prophecy given at creation. The rains have come again.I no longer sleep in strange places, over grave, shadowed faces.